Chapter Text
Chapter 1: We're Not In New Jersey Anymore
The transition between the early winter and the heart of winter in the northeast was not always brutal, but it always started with the deepening of the crisp, clean smell of dry air that was constantly tinged with the scent of burning firewood. Whether that firewood smell came from quaint two-story houses dotting the countryside, or from the discharge of cannonade in the battlefields that ran perilously close to civilian houses, it always smelled stronger as winter began to settle throughout the region.
Faint, audible crunch of boots echoed through the vast coastal plain of New Jersey, or at least that's what it sounded like to the two people trying to make their way through neutral territory and back to their camp's safety. It could not be helped through – it had been an incredibly dry season, especially during harvest time, and now the leaves that had fallen off the trees were doing nothing but amplify the sound of their footsteps. Surprisingly enough, first snow had not yet fallen in the region, even though it was a few days into the new year. Still, there had been no one sighted for miles and miles as the two slowly made their way through the wheat fields and forests that surrounded the fields.
“Don't say it, Sackett,” the constantly jolly, fresh-faced and taller of the two companions suddenly spoke up as they finally finished their hike across a too-tall field of unharvested wheat.
“Say what, Brewster?” Sackett answered, though not in an adversarial manner.
“Don't say it,” Brewster repeated. “We're not there yet.”
“Yeah, but I thought at least part of the camp started after we clear this forest,” Sackett said, gesturing to the rather intimidating gnarl of bare trees and brown-covered ground “You know, they'll definitely hear us coming before we even get a quarter way into the forest. Why don't we just sneak through the fields adjacent to the camp...give the boys a test.”
Brewster sighed in exasperation, saying, “You and your 'tests'. I swear, Sackett, you're the sneakiest bastard there is on God's green earth. You're going to eventually give old Georgie a heart-attack.”
“General Washington isn't even that old yet,” Sackett paused for a moment before saying, “Fine, we'll take the easier route. Don't blame me if they come rushing at us with their rifles and pistols bared and knock you out cold. I'm not waking you up with those sniffer salts again.”
“Don't expect you to,” Brewster answered, smiling before clapping Sackett on the back, and started off and into the forest of bare trees.
Sackett merely paused for a moment shrugging slightly with a small 'hmph' before trailing after the lieutenant. As predicted and expected, their footsteps through the crunchy undergrowth did generate a lot of noise, but what it attracted was not what was expected. There were far away shouts and moments later, figures dressed in colors that were unrecognizable to either of the two emerged from the greys of the far away trees. What was expected to be people dressed in black-brown-green colors, carrying rifles that were similar to the make and build of Brewster's rifle, were dressed in a motley assortment of dark blue with red trimmings or brown, occasionally splashed with beige, brown, or cream colored pants, and dark boots. The rifles that they carried and were being rapidly pointed at the two of them looked positively ancient – wooden rifles and flintlocks that only Brewster and Sackett had seen in museums.
“Uh,” Brewster stuttered, as the two of them stopped where they were as men of all shapes and sizes surrounded them, clearly surprised but coherent enough that they thought of them as a clear and present danger and threat. “Are you guys reenactment actors?”
“Someone go alert the general that we have captured spies!” one of the men shouted.
“Carrie, I don't think we're in New Jersey anymore,” Sackett muttered as the two them raised their hands up in surrender. The weapons that these people carried may have looked like museum-quality gunpowder rifles, but somehow, their configuration and the tiny details that were etched not only on the rifles but also on the uniforms that these people wore seemed a little too authentic. Reenactments of the various wars that their country had been through had stopped over twenty years ago; ever since the 'motherland' had reconquered them.
“Well, Natalie,” Brewster answered, letting one of the men take her rifle from her, but not before flashing said man with a smile full of teeth, “It's been good knowing you.”
* * *
Clearly Washington was intensely keen on exploring the idea of a spy chain, otherwise, he wouldn't have completely ignored Scott's request for a court-martial. Somewhere within Captain Benjamin Tallmadge, there was a heavy sigh of relief for the stay of court-martial, but also a storm of anxiety brewing for what was currently being discussed. He saw the merits of what Washington wanted, but as the sun continued to set and cast an orange-gold glow into the house, he was starting to realize just how futile the spy chain would be.
Trust.
That was the key to everything, and with the lack of confidence from not only from Scott, but also Sackett and surprisingly from Washington – why wouldn't he tell him how Abe's name became known to him – this furtive notion of a spy chain was doomed. Picking up the tin cup of coffee, he took a sip and bit back the flicker of distaste from appearing on his face as the long-cold, bitter brew sunk down into his stomach. Scott and Sackett were currently engaged in a rather heated discussion about civilians within the chain and how they would be a liability if – 'when' Scott had emphasized – they were ever caught.
There was a sudden knock on the door to the house and silence befell the two arguing gentlemen as Ben, closest to the entrance to the foyer, strode across the wooden floor and answered it. A regular, corporal-ranked by the looks of his uniform, stood on the steps and immediately stated, “Sir, we've captured two spies.”
However, instead of immediately answering, Ben had noticed that there was something strange in the inflection of the corporal's message. “Spies?” he inquired, but before he could elaborate on his question, the heavy footsteps of Scott and the lighter ones of Sackett were heard as the two men entered the foyer.
“Sir!” the corporal stated, as his eyes shifted immediately past Ben's left shoulder to see Scott approaching. “We've captured spies!” he repeated with a touch more enthusiasm than what Ben thought was necessary. “We're keeping them in the cellar.”
“Execute them,” Scott said not a moment after the corporal had finished his brief report. “The longer they live, the more chance they'll have to escape and report our numbers to the enemy.”
“But, sir,” the corporal started, hesitating and surprising Ben with just the sheer amount of uncertainty gracing his expression, “the spies are women...”
“What?!” Scott bellowed, before muttering something incoherent to Ben's ears, and pushed past them. Scott strode across the side of the house, shoulders set forward slightly and seemingly bleeding an air of anger all around him. Ben, along with the young corporal, and Sackett followed the tall man's hurried pace until they got to the back of the house where two guards were posted on either side of the closed cellar doors. With an impatient gesture, the two guardsmen opened the cellar doors and Scott quickly descended into the dark depths. Ben followed, and while the cellar was aptly lit with several lanterns, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust as the cellar doors closed after Sackett had also entered. The corporal had wisely remained outside or had returned to his other duties within the camp.
As shades of darkness finally resolved into more coherent shapes that pointed to two strangely dressed people that seemed to be bound quite tightly to chairs, with gags of rag tied over their mouths, he heard Scott sharply say, “What in God's name is this, Lieutenant?”
“Uh sir,” Ben heard Caleb speak up from the corner of the cellar, “they were...fighting...when they came to, so we had to knock them out again and...”
“At least loosen their bindings,” Scott said, gesturing to the clearly uncomfortable looks on the two women's faces.
Ben took a few steps forward as he ran a critical eye over the two women, noting that the strange matching and loose clothing that they wore nearly disguised them from their true gender. One of the women looked a bit fuller in face than the other, but both clearly had tied up their dark hair in an usually flat and slick-backed hairstyle. The only way he would have known that they were women, apart from them speaking – he hoped – was that both had the clear markings of softer facial structure that defined women in general. It was a rudimentary assessment, since the only women he knew were from his hometown, and all of them wore dresses and not strangely colored, slightly baggy clothing with matching patterned trousers, and dark boots.
However, the general did not get another word out when one of the women, suddenly snapped her eyes straight at him, widening with clear surprise, and yelled something quite muffled behind the gag. Ben could feel Scott's harsh gaze turn upon him as he frowned and glanced over at Caleb, who shrugged; clearly the women had not reacted to anything after they had woken up, except for now. The clatter of chairs being skittered and pounded into the wooden floor returned his attention to the commotion at hand as he saw the other woman attempt to kick, or what looked like the quick shuffle of tied feet to the legs of the chair, to try to silence her companion.
“Curious,” Sackett spoke up, immediately silencing the commotion as Ben felt the spymaster's hand upon his shoulder. Taking a step back to yield his observing space to the older man, he watched Sackett approach the two women, both of whom clearly calmed down slightly, but still carried defiant looks in their eyes. Sackett shifted his head to the side slightly before glancing back at him. “Hmph,” was all the man said before tapping the bottom of his chin. “They recognize you, Captain.”
Puzzled, he glanced over at Scott, who was frowning, and ignored Caleb's bark of laughter in response to Sackett's statement as he said, “I have never seen these women before and do not know them.”
“Hmph,” Sackett interrupted whatever Scott was about to say as he adjusted his spectacles slightly and turned back to their prisoners. “Let's see what they have to say.”
“Now wait just a moment--” Scott spluttered, taking a step forward in a vain attempt to stop Sackett from freeing at least one of the women of her gag.
“Holy fucking shit, guys!” the woman exploded in a shrill and angry tone. “What the fuck are you doing? Who the fuck are you two?!”--that was directed at both Sackett and Scott-- “Benny-boy! Don't you fucking recognize us?! It's us, Carrie and Natalie!”
The woman beside her yelled something quite muffled through her gag that was clearly directed at the freed woman, but Ben could not make heads or tails of the tirade which was clearly directed at her captors. He understood some of the words that she spewed with quite a bit of venom he thought not possible from a woman, but a few of the other words were very strange. There was also a nagging suspicion running through his thoughts that the words he did not understand were definitely epithets. While he himself was not prone to cursing, there were times when he clearly used it...especially when it involved Caleb being annoying.
“Benny-boy?” he heard Caleb repeat, and glanced over to see his friend with a look that was between confusion and smarmy. “Did ya meet them while at Yale?”
Before Ben could give Caleb the most irritated look he could manage, the woman yelled, “Fuck no! Westpoint, you asshole! Class of '73. And who the fuck are you, you bearded twat?!”
“Shut up, shut up,” they heard the other woman hiss as Sackett stepped back, holding both cloth gags in his hand. “We're definitely not in New Jersey anymore, and that is not the same Ben Tallmadge that we know! Look at their uniforms, Carrie! Look at it! They're not reenactment actors!”
Somehow, the woman's words got through to her companion, and slowly, both of them went still as their eyes looked around, not full of fear as Ben might have expected, curiously enough, full of confusion. While he was curious as to the statement of them not being in New Jersey, it seemed that something profound was going on, and that perhaps, they would receive their answers soon if they let the women continue to talk. A quick glance over at Scott told him that the general was thinking the same thing. He could not tell what Sackett was thinking, due to the man standing partially in front of him.
“Fuck,” the first woman, Carrie, as the other woman had called her, said after a moment. That word earned yet another glare from her companion, and considering how much ire the woman drew from her companion whenever it was uttered, Ben mentally filed that particular word away as a curse word. The woman certainly had a very vulgar mouth. “Sorry. Um, what year is it?”
“The year of our Lord, seventeen-seventy-seven,” Scott said, with a clear tone of hostility and annoyance gracing the words. “Who are you and who are you spying for? How do you know Captain Tallmadge? Speak now and we may grant both of you clemency in your sentences.”
“Oh, fuck,” the first woman said yet again, this time earning a clearly exaggerated eye roll from her companion. He wasn't sure whether or not he was offended by the clearly uncouth sensibilities being displayed by both women. Bar maids, especially the one that Caleb had described to him behaved in such a manner, but something within him told him that these women were not bar maids. They had no fear shining through their eyes, and clearly thought of Scott and the others within this cellar not a terrible threat to their lives. Any sensible person, woman or not, would be absolutely terrified of what was about to befall them, especially if they had been caught spying.
“We're definitely not in New Jersey, at least the New Jersey we know, anymore,” the other woman muttered just loud enough for them to hear, though it sounded as if she was talking to either herself or to her companion. “How the hell did we get here?”
“You might want to see this, General,” Caleb spoke up, silencing the women for the moment as Ben saw him pick up a rather large object that looked sort of like a rifle from a table nearest to the wall of the cellar. He had not noticed the object first, due to how dark it looked and thought it was just a shadow being cast by the lanterns. Now that Caleb was holding it up, it looked so strange, so odd, that he reached out to touch it, trying to make heads or tails of it.
“What is that?” Scott said, taking the object from Caleb and turned it over in his hands. There was a barrel, but it was incredibly thick and blocky. The area that looked like someone would shoulder it to ensure that the recoil was absorbed properly when firing was also bulkier than he expected, but surprisingly contoured as if it was supposed to fit snug against the body. The trigger, though, looked like an ordinary one that one would find on a rifle, except slicked in the same dark color as the rest of the rifle.
“That, was on her,” Caleb gestured to the first ungagged woman, “or so I'm told by the boys outside.” Ben saw his friend lift up a smaller, more rectangular L-shaped object that looked like a miniature version of an officer's pistol, except blockier. “This,” Caleb said as Scott passed the rifle-like object to Ben who took it and noted how light it was despite its size, before taking the pistol-like object, “was on the other lady. Their outfits have pockets and I was told at first that the boys didn't know they were women until they searched them. They left them alone after that, but this is what was also found.”
The nearest lantern was unhooked and panned over the table, and he could not help but stare in utter shock at just what was displayed. Several small rectangular-like objects were laid out, a couple of them bigger than others, along with an assortment of knives that looked to be hunting blades graced the ends of the table. The rectangular objects looked as dark as the rifle-like and pistol-like objects, and he could only guess that they were ammunition of some sort, designed to work with the objects. Women normally did not carry rifles or pistols – these two women were very strange and unnerved him more than he cared to admit. However, it was two objects in the center of the table that caught his attention.
Gingerly placing the rifle-like object back down on a cleared spot on the table, he picked up one of the metallic objects, noting that two small rounded rectangular plates, roughly the length of his thumb with a width of just a little more than a quarter of his index finger, was looped in a thin chain. Bringing the object closer to the lantern that Caleb was holding, he carefully examined what was imprinted on the raised surface of the metal plates. “C-Brewster?” he questioned, glancing up at Caleb, who shrugged, before looking back at the first woman who had an oddly calm look upon her face.
“Lieutenant Carrie Brewster, US Army,” the woman stated. “Serial number one-zero-alpha-foxtrot-seven-niner-six-dash-five-zulu-four.”
“US Army?” Scott pounced on the proclamation, as Ben absently placed the chain necklace back down and picked up the other one. However, he didn't glance at it as he turned his attention to the general, noting that there was a very strange eagerness to the man's demeanor – as if the general hoped that the spies they had captured would have valuable information. Whatever they would get now would be jointly presented to Washington when he returned, but something did not sit right with Ben as he continued to silently observe.
“United States of America Army,” the woman continued, though her tone had clearly turned into one that felt hostile, though it strangely sounded quite agreeable to his ears. “Westpoint Academy graduate, class of twenty-one-seventy-three.”
* * *
Later...nightfall...
“So, she then hangs a black petticoat on the drying line, to signal to my courier when the intelligence is ready,” Ben stated as the sounds of Sackett scratching away on a piece of parchment with his quill pen filled the occasional silence in the house. The echoes of booted feet on the floor belonging to Scott also punctuated the silence, though the beats on the floor were erratic, distractive.
“Not bad,” Sackett said in an offhand manner.
“She hangs napkins,” he continued, holding up one that had not been put away after the tepid and distinctly uncomfortable evening meal they had, “to signify which cove is safe for the rendezvous--”
“Wait,” Sackett suddenly exclaimed, dropping the quill and holding up his hands to stop him from speaking further. “Rendezvous?!” The action had also caught Scott's attention as he re-entered the room with a pensive look on his face. Ben knew that part of that look was attributed to the disturbing things they had heard from the female spies still locked up in the cellar, but the other part was dedicated to the continuation of their discussion into whether or not a spy chain was feasible.
“Tell me your agent meets your courier in person,” Sackett said, looking slightly apprehensive.
“Well...of course,” he answered, wondering why Sackett was confirming what he had already stated.
“Failure!” the man exclaimed. “Death! No...no, the courier and agent are never in the same place at the same time.”
He frowned as he glanced up at Scott, seeing that the general was merely observing the discussion and would be providing no vocal support for his arguments. “But, then how do you expect for them to make the transfer?” he asked, focusing back on Sackett.
Sackett gave a noisy sigh as Ben noticed that the older man clearly rolled his eyes up at the heavens – a gesture that greatly reminded him of what had happened mere hours earlier. Clearly, even after the man himself had redirected their attention back up to continue their spy chain discussion, the strangeness and strangers were exerting an influence. Ben had initially wanted to claim witchcraft as soon as he had heard the words from the woman, Carrie Brewster, as influencing the two women's mind or perhaps they were addled enough that they needed to be removed from society as a whole, but neither of those trains of thought had sat well with him. Something within the shadows of the flickering lanterns in the cellar that had played across their faces had told him that the women, or at least the woman named Carrie Brewster was speaking the truth.
The other woman, a N-Sackett as the metal plates had stated, clearly Natalie or some variation of that name as the other woman had identified her with, had remained silent. It was during that silence that Sackett had reminded them of the discussion they were supposed to be having before Washington returned, and had bustled out. The women had been left ungagged, but Scott had given Caleb an order to re-gag the women if they started screaming for help. So far, nothing had been heard.
“You,” Sackett sighed before leaning forward again, “pre-determine the location to drop...that is to hide le lettre de confidentiale in question.” The older man stood up and started to approach the clock that was located in the foyer, waving a piece of folded parchment. “You then arrange a later time for retrieval.” Ben also stood up, taking the small note book with him as he watched as Sackett opened the glass door to the head of the clock and placed the piece of parchment in before winding the clock back to six. “A dead drop,” Sacket proclaimed as chimes rang, “to ensure that your agents don't drop dead from being caught enflangrante delictum.”
He had to admit, the idea had a lot of merit, and as he jotted it down, he heard Scott say, “Which demonstrates the folly of this scheme. If a single link is broken, the entire chain is rendered useless.”
“Which is why,” Sackett said, returning to the room as did Scott, “we use encryption, sir. To shield the men, not the message.” As both of them sat back down, Sackett continued to ask, “Captain, which enciphering method have you been using thus far? Rozefuur? Trademius? Personally, I prefer Duma.”
Guiltily, Ben opened his mouth to answer that what messages that had been passed so far were not encrypted, but he couldn't, and unfortunately, Sackett took that opportunity to look up. The man's face fell like a stone slab as he heard him say, “Please tell me that you're using encryption.”
He mutely shook his head negative. Somehow, disappointing Sackett made him feel like a child again. “Well...I was told you were a graduate of Yale,” Sackett stated, frowning.
That expression, coupled with the clear disappointment in the level of knowledge that he knew that he was displaying irritated him, but he wasn't sure if it was himself that he was irritated at or the fact that there was a clear lack of confidence within Sackett's tone. “Yes, sir, class of seventy-three,” he stated.
“One can suppose that you've studied Greek, Latin, and Hebrew?”
He voiced his affirmative in the same languages that the older man had listed before taking his seat, saying, “I am a quick study, Mr. Sackett.”
“Then at least we have somewhere to start,” Sackett said before taking a thin, rectangular note book from his side of the table and tossed it over to him. “Then commit this to memory.”
Ben placed his quill and notebook down and gingerly picked up the book as Scott said, “We don't have time for this. The commander expects results, like the discovery of those spies today, not word play. Clearly the British have developed new and advance weaponry and it is things and information like those captured women which need to be delivered onto his desk.”
“You don't think that they're telling the truth?” Ben ventured as he flipped through the pages of Sackett's notebook.
“Addled in the head more likely, or just lying,” Scott answered. “Clearly trained by the British to confuse us and ensure that we do them no harm. Once we retrieve whatever information they have about troops and these new weaponry, we can send them along their way.”
“And how, General?” Sackett immediately asked, lifting his head up. “How do you propose to extract information from them?”
Ben found himself also giving the general an expectant look, as if hoping that the answer that Scott would give was nothing untoward or unpleasant. Spies or no, he did not condone the treatment of women, no matter how strangely dressed or spoken, in a harsh manner. They were at war, but war or not, a gentleman's decorum was to be maintained – at least towards the more fairer of the sexes. He knew that Scott was clearly irritated that both he and Caleb had not shown Simcoe a proper politeness during the man's time in captivity.
“I see,” Sackett said after a moment of silence. “Putting that aside, we're ahead of the game, thanks to Captain Tallmadge here. Clearly, I usually have to concoct a legend to embed agents into enemy territory. A poultry trader, a fish monger, a schoolteacher. It requires a wardrobe, documentation, and training. The brilliance of Mr. Woodhull is his life – it's his legend, and there's no reason to invent a false one – he's already living it.”
“Who pays for him?” Scott asked.
“Hm?” Sackett questioned, looking a bit puzzled.
“Well, if the farmer's not farming, who pays for his expenses? His food, lodging, money to bribe sources?”
Sackett cracked a walnut as he said, “We do, of course.”
“Congress will never approve intelligence salaries while we try to cobble together bounties for our regulars!”
“Congress doesn't need to know about it. We'll draw from a secret fund, authorized by Washington to be used for discretion.”
Fed up, Scott pushed his chair back, got up, and left. “General, please!” Ben tried to call after him, “we've been asked to explore a chain of agents that might work. Some debates are to be expected.”
“Explore whatever you want, Tallmadge,” Scott answered, returning with his coat in hand. “As the Head of Intelligence, I will never approve of this. It's time you understood how the chain of command works.” The general picked up his tricorn and left, letting the door slam close.
“Huh,” Sackett muttered, chewing on a piece of walnut, “that was predictable.”
As much as Ben wanted to sigh in exasperation, he held it in and merely closed Sackett's notebook. Washington wanted the feasibility to be explored, but with the lack of trust and the vehement disagreement between Scott and Sackett – this entire juncture was doomed to fail even before the onset.
* * *
Meanwhile...
“United States of America Army, huh?”
“We're from the future, squirrel-beard,” the woman, identified as Carrie Brewster and apparently a ranked officer within what he thought was a fictitious army, said in a sweet tone, though Caleb could clearly see the anger in her eyes. Had he not examined the weaponry that the two women had on them, along with hearing the brief interrogation that General Scott had attempted to conduct before being interrupted by the civilian Sackett and surprisingly also by Ben, he would have thought the two women as bar maids with British leanings attempting to pull the wool over the Continentals.
“All right,” he said, taking a chair by the table that contained the various weaponry, along with what looked like identification for the two women that were engraved in metal plates, and flipped it around before sitting down. Placing his arms in a casual fashion on back of the chair, he continued to say, “Let's say that you're telling the truth, Ms. Brewster. It can't be a coincidence that you know Captain Tallmadge.” He would be damned if he did not do everything in his power to protect his best friend, women spies or not.
“Oh no,” Brewster said, frowning slightly, “if you actually do believe us, and that's a big if, squirrel-beard, its not Ms. Brewster, its Lieutenant. I fucking earned my rank through four grueling years of military school, asshole. Don't know what rank you are, but given the conditions here and where we are, you probably just got picked up and recruited into a cushy position by your Tallmadge's influence.”
“Carrie,” the other woman groaned in quite an displeased tone. “Really? Do you really want to antagonize our captors?”
“You might want to listen to your fellow lady, Lieutenant,” Caleb said, tipping his head slightly towards the other woman, smiling slightly. He had already mentally filed away the words 'fuck' and 'asshole' as curse words and despite himself, there was a sense of perverse pleasure rolling through his mind at just how filthy of a mouth this Lieutenant Brewster had. Had she not been a woman, this Brewster-woman would have fit right in with his whaling crewmates. “As for 'our' Ben Tallmadge, he's the only one I know. You don't happen to know or have encountered his brother, Samuel, have you?”
“Samuel, no,” Brewster answered, shaking her head slightly. “I do know a Samantha, and she's a Tallmadge too, though cousin to the US Army Major Ben Tallmadge that we know.”
Caleb was silent for a very long few minutes as he found his smile disappearing and a frown starting to work its way through his lips. What had the British done to these women to have them tell such outlandish tales? And despite a part of him continuing to maintain that these were British spies, albeit very frighteningly strange ones, doubt was starting to slowly grow in his heart. If there was merit to their story from being in the future, then how on God's good green earth did these women come to be? It was already enough that he could barely wrap his mind around the fact that women were in the army, especially as officers, but the appearance of these women and their strange gadgets...
“So we win the war?” he cautiously asked, almost hesitating in trying to get the question past his lips.
“Not for a few long years and with many casualties,” the other woman, Natalie Sackett, quietly answered. “Civilians and military.”
“We can't say anymore than that,” Brewster piped up. “Us being here may have already drastically altered our own timelines.”
“Then how'd you come to be in New Jersey?”
“So I guess we're still in the great toxic waste dump of a state,” Brewster answered, though it sounded more like a casual quip than a true answer. Caleb wasn't sure what a 'toxic waste dump' was, but whatever it was, it sounded a bit flippant and insulting to the colony. “We were trying to rendezvous with our battalion at Morristown, the 2nd Legionnaires. Our commanding officer is the Major Ben Tallmadge that we know, obviously not the Ben Tallmadge that you know. We were passing through the fields on the outskirts of the town and next thing you know, we're surrounded by your boys.”
“But your Major and the Captain here look like each other?” he asked, intense curiosity now settling into him. It was a fascinating story, and one that he wasn't sure if it was still a tall tale or not – but the conviction within their tones told him that these women believed in what they were saying.
“Well, considering how dark it is here, yeah, I think they look alike. Who knows, maybe if we can get some more light in here, I can give you a better answer. Oh wait, electricity has not been invented yet. Damn you Edison and Tesla, for existing at a later time...and damn you for no running water and proper toilets!”
“Who?”
“No one,” Brewster said, shaking her head. “Two people who will hopefully exist in a hundred years or so, providing that we didn't fuck up the timeline too much.”
Caleb nodded, though he was slightly unsure whether or not he understood all that had just been said. However, Sackett spoke up a moment later, saying, “We're not fading yet, which means somewhere in the future, we still exist.”
“Fading?” he questioned.
“Well, if we're here, it means that our ancestors have not keeled over and died yet throughout the many centuries that separate you from the year we're from and we still exist. My memories are still intact, which unfortunately means that yep...we're still rebelling against the Holy Empire of Britannia.”
“The British Empire reconquered us?”
“Reconquered most of the world in the past seventy years from our perspective,” Sackett answered. “Holy Queen Georgette and her predecessor, Holy King Charles, have been systematically reclaiming and recolonizing a lot of the known world under the umbrella of a unified chain peace between formerly warring countries. They're under the banner of the Holy Empire of Britannia...and the Pope had blessed their crusade.”
“That is a terrible perspective of the future, missy,” he couldn't help but say.
“So you have our names, may we have yours?” Brewster asked.
Despite himself, Caleb could not help but give a bark of laughter before he said, “Lieutenant Caleb Brewster on special assignment and attached to the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons.”
Strange surprise flitted through the faces of both Brewster and her companion as Brewster said, “Oh. Huh. Look, I'm really sorry that I called you a 'bearded twat' earlier, along with all those other names. Please accept my sincere apologies, Lieutenant.”
As strange as it was, Caleb knew an apology when he heard one and this one sounded quite genuine. “Apology accepted, Lieutenant.”
He still had his doubts about the validity of what he heard, but with them being forthcoming with information, no matter how strange it was, perhaps the civilian that Washington seemed to have placed an enormous amount of trust in, Nathaniel Sackett, would be able to decipher their words. As much as he wanted Ben to hear the words that had just been spoken, he still did not fully trust the women, especially since they reacted quite wildly to his presence earlier. It was enough that Ben had a personal grudge against Robert Rogers, which was probably reciprocated if the 'message' left for Rogers in that Connecticut safehouse had been found and delivered. Caleb was determined to not place another threat upon his best friend's head.
“If you'll excuse me, ladies,” he said, getting up from his chair and tromped up the stairs before pounding on the cellar door. It cracked open as he saw the guards peek in. “Hey, fetch Dunmore will ya? I need him to keep an eye on our prisoners for a few minutes.”
One of the guards gave a curt nod and quickly left to go find the enlisted man that he had identified. It took a few moments, but soon, the young man named Dunmore came trotting back with the guard and Caleb grabbed the young man quite roughly by the front of his uniform. “Do not touch them. I'll be back soon and if I hear any word of ill treatment from them, we will have more than words.”
He didn't know why he trusted the words of the women more than Dunmore, but he didn't dwell on the thought too much, for a larger one was weighing on his mind. It was his mistake, his anger and frustration at the cellar where they had kept Simcoe that had nearly cost Ben's commission. It had been put aside with Washington's apparent unspoken dismissal of Ben's court-martial, but he knew that mistakes such as that could not happen ever again. He was harsh to the young man still gripped in his fist, but it was only because he felt the guilt nag at him. He needed to ensure that these two prisoners were kept safe until they would be properly dealt with.
“Yes, sir,” Dunmore stuttered slightly before Caleb let him go and pushed past him.
Biting cold nipped at the tip of his nose as a chilly wind blew by, bringing snow flakes from the bare trees surrounding the camp to the ground. Tightening his coat around him a little further, he hurried to the house and gave a nod to the two guards standing before the entrance. They barely acknowledged him before he opened the door and slipped inside. With the warmth of the house bathing him, he shook himself for a brief moment before walking a few steps down the foyer to where he saw the first candle light spill out of a room.
Peeking in, he couldn't help but smile as he saw Ben sitting slightly hunched over the desk, looking at a larger notebook from time to time while madly scribbling away with his quill in the small notebook he always carried with him. He opened his mouth to call out his friend's name, but stopped himself. There was an intense look of concentration on Ben's face, and Caleb suddenly did not want to disturb him. The matter would wait, because it was Sackett whom he was seeking.
Continuing down the foyer hall, he peeked into other rooms and surprisingly, did not see General Scott present in any of them. However, at the end of the hall, there was another flickering of candle light and he stopped at the frame of the doorway. Nathaniel Sackett was sitting at a desk, scribbling away at something, but surrounding his desk was quite a mess of crumpled pieces of parchment. He heard the older man issue a noise a frustration before placing his quill down and crumpling the sheaf he had been writing on.
“Mr. Sackett, sir?” he politely began, knocking on the frame slightly to get the man's attention.
“Ah, yes, erm, Lieutenant Brewster, wasn't it?” Sackett said, looking up with owlish-like eyes before blinking as if to clear them.
“Yeah,” he answered, “You may want to listen in on what our prisoners are saying. It's strange, and if I'd thought witchcraft were at work, I would have already called for a priest.”
“But you didn't,” Sackett pointed out. “Which means that on some level within your mind, you believe what they've said. So, what have they said?”
“I think you should hear it for yourself, sir,” he said. “General Scott as well.”
“Pish-posh,” Sackett dismissively said, waving a hand in the air. “He nearly frightened those women half to death. The interrogation of spies, especially female spies requires patience. A lot of it. We are not savages who would threaten such delicate creatures, even if they are dressed in such strange clothes and speak in a very odd manner, if a bit uncouth.”
Caleb paused for a moment before nodding slightly at the man's words. He did have a point and from what he had seen earlier, clearly the discussion that Scott, Ben, and Sackett had been having almost the entire day was influencing Scott's irritable mood. What little trust that had been built between him and the women did not need to crumble into ashes.
“Well, then let us be off, shan't we?” Sackett said, giving him a brief smile as he stood up and strode out of the room.
* * *
The next morning...
“What, you know them all, trust them all?” Sackett asked, through it sounded more like a statement than a question.
“We all grew up together,” Ben answered, kicking the dirt that surrounded the campfire.
He had been up nearly the entire evening, studying and taking notes out of Sackett's codebook and somehow had fallen asleep on the desk. Morning had found pieces of parchment stuck to the side of his face as the sounds of Sackett doing whatever he did in the morning caused the noise that woke him up. Now though, with the crisp cold mid-morning air and sun invigorating him, he found himself briefly surveying the ground before him. The light coating of snow on the cold, hard ground did nothing to deter the hardier campfires that dotted the camp. Even the tiny splash of dirt that managed to get caught in the campfire merely caused a small hiss that sounded more like a displeased possum than something menacing. Still, he ceased his actions and returned his attention to Sackett's boiling pot of water that contained a single egg.
“Childhood friends,” Sacket murmured, though Ben was not sure that he heard admiration in the tone of the man's voice. “Fascinating. Wouldn't have thought to try that.”
“It wasn't exactly planned,” he admitted, unsure if the praise was warranted.
“Don't tell anyone that! Don't tell anyone else Mr. Woodhull's name.” The older man plucked the egg out with a spoon before rubbing it with a towel in hand. He then placed the towel that had been used to dry the shell of the egg before reaching for a saucer that contained some liquid and a small sharpened branch within it. “Time to gift Mr. Woodhull an alias.” As Sackett began to scrawl something on the egg, he continued to say, “One by which other agents shall know him as.”
Ben frowned as he thought he misheard Sackett and asked, “I'm sorry, the other agents?”
He received a grunt of affirmation as his answer before Sackett said, “Our plans for your farmer are needed to nurture the seed that I have planted for the last year and a half. One of them is sprouting right now – right under the enemy's nose.”
Ben pressed his lips together as he realized the implications of Sackett's shrewd plan. He couldn't risk his friends' lives, especially with what Sackett had implied was happening. “I'm sorry, but this is not how its going to work. You see, Abe...he's a very cautious man. He won't meet with anybody he doesn't already know.”
There was also the matter that Anna was involved, and given how the captured British women spies were treated and reacted to said treatment last night, he knew that Anna did not have the fortitude that the two women still in the cellar had – those two had clearly been well-trained to not divulge key information and feint by whoever had trained them. He could not risk his friends' lives, especially since they were civilian.
“He'll have to,” Sackett insisted, as he held the egg to the fire for a few moments before removing it and blowing on the shell.
“No, he won't,” Ben argued. “He'll quit, is what he'll do.”
“I thought he was your friend,” Sackett stated, rubbing the shell of the egg on the sleeve of his coat.
“Yes, which is exactly why he trusts me to protect him.”
Sackett made a noise of agreement before handing him the egg, saying, “Only that which is concealed is protected. We can even conceal his name.” As Ben examined the egg, looking for the writing that he had clearly seen etched on moment ago, Sackett continued to say, “Luckily for you, I am a master in the art of concealment.”
Ben cracked the hard-boiled egg open and peeled the shell off. However, as he turned the egg, he saw the writing to which Sackett had scrawled upon earlier. [Mr. W.] it said. Glancing up, he saw the shrewd look pass over the older man's features before disappearing into the depths of a neutral, if not indifferent expression. He had a feeling that Sackett had just silently evaluated him for some task or another, but what it was, he didn't know and wasn't sure if it would be answered.
* * *
Nightfall, again...
General Washington's abrupt entrance into the house was unexpected, but Ben supposed that he should have expected it. The three of them, reconvened for the presentation of debate results, stood up, waiting for their commander to acknowledge his readiness for their reports. As Washington removed his cloak with a slight flourished parting of his hands, one of his guards took it and quickly left.
Washington turned to face them, and quietly said, “General, have we come to a consensus?”
“Your Excellency,” Scott began, “we believe that traditional reconnaissance is the way forward, for it depends on as little variable as possible who would be trusted to carry out and follow orders.”
Ben saw Washington's sharp eyes flick over to him as Washington asked, “Captain, what say you?”
As much as he wanted to advocate Sackett's plans, he knew that it was impossible, and it all boiled down to what that one thought that had crossed his mind earlier yesterday. “I...I concur with the general, sir,” he admitted. Not surprisingly, he heard Sackett 'hmph' in indignation. “The chain of agents,” he continued, determined to ensure that Washington knew why he was saying what he was saying for he had a gut feeling that this would be his only opportunity to make his opinions known with little consequence. “It requires trust, and in that resource, I'm afraid that we find ourselves lacking.”
“You're speaking now of your men on Long Island?” Washington asked.
“No sir, I'm speaking of the men in this room,” he said, feeling bolder than he had been in a while. His words were received with a shrewd look that briefly graced Washington's face, while Scott merely gave him a puzzled look. “Sir, for a conspiracy like this one to function, we would be needing to keep secrets from the enemy, from congress, even from our own army. This would require absolute trust amongst the secret-keepers and yet General Scott here does not trust me or my judgment. Mr. Sackett here mistrusts my experience, much as I mistrust his attitude for the lives of the agents in the field.”
He paused for a moment before glancing up at Washington, hoping that his next words would not reinstate the court-martial that he was supposed to have been given. “You sir, you know the name Abraham Woodhull, and yet you will not disclose the source of your knowing. Apparently, you do not trust me either. Therefore, I cannot trust any success of a chain that we might build here today.”
He saw Sackett shake his head negative, as if either agreeing or disagreeing with his assessment – he couldn't tell. However, it seemed that Washington valued Sackett's opinion quite highly for he said, “Then let me speak with Captain Tallmadge alone.”
“Sir, I'm sure you've already received notification, but what about the prisoners in the cellar?” Scott asked. “Shall I prepare scouts to gather reports from the ale houses along the border?”
“Those prisoners will be dealt with shortly, General,” Washington said before focusing his gaze back to Ben, saying, “Please accompany me, Captain.”
As Washington left the room, with his guard somehow already at the entrance with his cloak ready, Ben followed the general out and into a lightly brewing snowstorm. He saw Washington pause on the ends of the steps and approached, half-surprised that as soon as he was paced to the side of the general, Washington resumed his walk. Side-by-side they traversed, through the fresh snow rapidly coating the ground, and though it was bitterly cold, Ben did not complain or allow it to show on his face.
“Mr. Sackett tells me that you prefer an alias for Woodhull,” Washington said, casually strolling through the wind-blown snow storm as if it were nothing. “I must say, I concur.”
“Forgive me sir,” Ben hesitatingly said as Washington's words sunk in, “I thought we agreed that the best way for--”
“You were right,” the general interrupted, “for this prescription, we require an amendment in the name of trust. Following our retreat at Brooklyn Heights, I tasked an agent to reconnoiter enemy encampments around Long Island and seek out contacts friendly to our side. His name was Nathan Hale and he was captured while he was on a mission for me. He was hanged as a spy.”
Ben could only blink and stare at the general in shock as he tried to come to terms with what he had heard. He wanted to say that it was false that Nathan was more careful with proclaiming his allegiance to the rebel cause than most people he knew, especially since the student body at Yale had been clearly split between the Whigs and Tories, but his words were stuck in the back of his throat.
“Fortunately,” Washington continued, “his best friend at Yale, Benjamin Tallmadge, spoke often of his hometown friends; a whaler named Brewster, and a farmer named Woodhull. I wrote those three names down on a report – a report that I looked back on when an unsigned letter sent by an anonymous farmer proved correct.”
In the brief moment of silence between the two Ben simultaneously felt his heart lift in relief and drop at the same time, for he knew the dangers that were to come – Washington thought the chain of agents was feasible.
“Captain Hale died without friends to support him. We cannot let that happen to Mr. Culpeper.”
“Mr. Culpeper?” he asked, puzzled.
It was short-lived as Washington held up the boiled egg with [Mr. W] printed on it, saying, “We'll never use the name Woodhull ever again.” The egg was crushed in Washington's gloved hands as the general gave him a nod of acknowledgment, turned and strode away. Ben stood there in the cold for a moment later, as an unbidden small smile worked its way up his lips. While he mourned the fact that Nathan had given his life in service to the freedom of the people here from British rule, he was glad that Washington was taking the safety and lives of his friends seriously.
With that comforting thought secured in his mind, he made his way back to the house and as he opened the door, careful to dust the coating of snow on his uniform and hair off, before entering. As the the door closed behind him, the warmth of the house was tempered by the sounds of voices coming from the room where the four of them had met earlier. Crossing the short distance from the foyer and back into the meeting room, he entered, just as he heard Washington say, “...Sackett will see to it.”
“Sir, I must protest!” Scott said, sounding slightly exasperated but still composed enough that it barely showed on his face. “These women, they're completely unknown, foreign to us. To send them away when they know our camp, our numbers, is asking for Cornwallis and his forces to trap us here.”
“They will be transported to a secret and secure location,” Washington said, as Ben noticed that Sackett was looking at both generals with keen eyes. “And there, we shall learn how the British trained them and how they came to be with their strange ways, words, and tactics. Lieutenant Brewster along with Sergeants Hickey and Groves will be accompanying him” The general then turned his attention to Sackett, saying, “If you would please, Mr. Sackett, time is of the essence.”
“At once,” the bespectacled man said, getting up and hurrying out of the room.
Moments later, Ben heard the entrance to the house open and close. While he was quite surprised that Washington would send his personal guards with Caleb and Sackett, something about the transporting of their spy prisoners seemed a little too secretive to him. He understood that Sackett had talked in confidence with Washington when their general had returned to camp earlier in the day, but with the confidence that the general had placed in him earlier in passing on the future alias of Abe, he felt that he could not ask Washington what was happening to their prisoners.
There was also the feeling of a certain set of information that seemed that Washington did not want to pass on, at least not right at the moment – could it be because of Scott's actions last night that stayed whatever Washington wanted to really say? He didn't know and could only speculate.
* * *
Morning, again...
“You are an invaluable asset to me, and so General Scott, I feel it better to apply your acumen where it is most needed – on the front.”
“Sir,” Scott protested, “a captain cannot run the intelligence branch.”
“That is why I promoted him to Major.”
Scott was silent for a very long moment before saying, “I wish you the very best of luck, Your Excellency.”
As soon as Scott left, Ben approached, having not wanted to interrupt the conversation between the two officers. He was, however, grateful and slightly giddy that a promotion had been given to him and that Washington was placing direct trust in him to carry out his duties as the new Head of Intelligence.
“He is a fine general,” he heard Washington murmur as he approached, turning to face him.
“Thank you, Your Excellency, for this promotion, sir. I pray I do you proud,” he managed to say, surprised that he was able to string together such a coherent sentence in light of what had just happened.
“As do I,” Washington agreed. “Your first duty here is to come up with a given name for our Mr. Culpeper.”
Tilting his head slightly, he thought about the request for a few moments before smiling slightly. “Samuel,” he said. It was all he could do to ensure that hope for his brother still stuck on board the Jersey would be released soon.
“In honor of your brother, I presume?” the general asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, though curiosity over took him for a brief moment as he asked, “And might I ask, what is the meaning of 'Culpeper'?”
“Excellent question.”
~~~
While Caleb was not adverse to the sounds of women's voices, especially enthusiastic ones that held no amount of gaiety or laughter back, for it greatly reminded him of all the ale houses and seedier pubs that he frequented while running scouting reports back and forth for the 2nd Continental Light Dragoons. He found himself rather enjoying the barely understood chatter of their two former prisoners as Sackett asked them questions.
While the secretive events of the night still made him slightly guilty that he did not tell Ben yet, and were still unfolding even now, he was glad that Sackett had the foresight to inform General Washington of the true nature of their prisoners. Disbelief at the two women's appearance and their behavior still lingered within him, but for all that had happened, especially with the burning of Brooklyn Heights and their retreat from New York, this supposed tall tale from these two women lightened his heart.
While they were still celebrating their victories at Trenton and Princeton, it was only because of Abe's timely delivery of the Hessian report that guaranteed it. They still had no one permanently in the city to be their eyes and ears. There was no counting on the future skirmishes or potential victories to be had.
Under secret orders from Washington, Sackett had arranged for a carriage to be drawn to the back of the house. The two women had been publicly seen by the guardsmen and transferred to the carriage, with Sackett loudly proclaiming that he, Caleb, and the two personal guards of Washington himself would be taking them to a more secure safehouse. Back then, Caleb only had an inkling as to what was happening, for he had believed what Sackett had originally stated for the fate of their prisoners.
It had all been a feint, for when the carriage was at least a league away from the encampment, Sackett had halted the carriage. What transpired after that still felt like an odd dream to him, but Caleb had then heard the older man order the guards to let the two women out, he had also made a quip about the encampment having knowledge that the women were no longer in the camp. Sackett then proceeded to inform the women that the general – not mentioned directly by name, of course – wanted to interview them and saw some truth in their story, but because of who they were, they had to sneak back into the camp without anyone knowing the wiser.
That exercise had given Caleb a first hand glance at just how thoroughly trained in sneaking around the women had, and just how devious and deceptive Sackett was. A part of him was glad though, that Sackett had told Washington of what had transpired in the brief questioning of the women, but at the same time, the fact that not only he, but all of the others made it back to the encampment and the house without detection worried him. The Continental Army's guarding of the camp was quite poor.
The sounds of light laughter from one of the women shook him out of his musings as he looked up from where he was sitting in the corner of Sackett's office. It was now mid-morning, and only when Washington, Scott, and Ben had vacated the building – temporarily he hoped, for at least Ben – did the women who had hidden themselves on the second floor of the house for the duration of the night, emerge and quietly make their way to Sackett's office.
“I am so excited to finally meet you face-to-face, sir! I did my thesis on you while at Quantico, and believe me, you're an inspiration to a lot of us here...I mean, there, well, in the future.”
“Quantico?”
“Military base and training facility in Virginia, just outside of our capitol.”
“Inspiration to 'us'?”
“Yeah, the Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6. We used to be known as the CIA, the Central Intelligence Agency. We're the civilian branch of international espionage and intelligence gathering for the current and former government and country of the United States of America. The President, who was also our military's Commander-in-Chief, was in charge of us. Since Britannia reconquered us twenty-three years ago, MI6 has generally stayed the same, but most of those who work for MI6 are Britannia's agents. Very few of us defected when the rebellion started. I'm one of them. Those of us who defected have formed a network that is liaised with the military intelligence network of the former US Army and Navy.”
“Fascinating,” Sackett said, leaning slightly forward from his already precarious perch on his chair. “If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about this 'Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6'.”
“Nooooo,” came the sing-song denial across the hall that caused all of them to look up and for the younger Sackett to frown in clear displeasure. “Don't ask that question, Mr. Sackett... Natalie will go on a long-winded speech about all the 'greatness' and 'awesome' things that the agency has done but cannot divulge details because of 'secret clearance' access and all that bullshit. It then ends with her comparing it to Mil-Int and how civilians have less structure and more freedom to take whatever actions they need to in order to accomplish their goals.”
“El-tee,” the younger Sackett said after a moment of silence, “shut up. Just because Westpoint's Mil-Int program was also world-renowned doesn't give you bragging rights either.”
“Mil-Int? Westpoint? As in Fort Westpoint in New York?” the elder Sackett broke into their conversation.
“Military Intelligence program, the premiere academic program of study at Westpoint Military Academy,” the younger supplied before Brewster could utter a word. “It became the site for the US Army's school to train and produce officers. There were four other academies that were also established in the many years that followed: Coast Guard Academy, Naval Academy, Air Force Academy, and Merchant Marine.”
“Air Force?”
“Ah...we have things that can fly through the air in the future,” Brewster said, getting up from where she was sitting and walked over. To the younger Sackett, she said, “Better stop blowing the old man's mind. Methinks he'll have a hernia soon if we keep telling him future technology and marvels.”
Fortunately, the three of them were interrupted by the timely opening of the door to the house, as both Ben and General Washington entered. Eyes turned, and mouths stopped talking as he watched in hilarious surprise at the actions that both women took. They stood straighter than he had ever seen someone stand, legs snapped together in a polished fashion that seemed almost borderline British, and both had raised their right arm up until the upper half of their arms were parallel to the floor. Their forearms had been tilted at an angle until the tips of their right hands' longest fingers, pressed together so that it formed a plane, were touching the tip of their eyebrows. Their left arm was stiffly by their sides with their left hands curled into a fist.
Caleb had a feeling that it was some sort of acknowledgment of respect or salute that would have typically been done with the tip of a hat towards the receiver, for Washington. Their eyes had not strayed one moment to Ben, but were centered directly on the general. He had a brief moment of intense doubt – had Sackett been in the right to have freed the women last night? He didn't know if their completely frightening change in demeanor was a threat or not.
But that moment passed when it seemed that Washington knew that the gesture was a sign of respect and merely tipped his tricorn at them. It seemed enough of a sign of acknowledgment for the women as he saw them relax a fraction before withdrawing their hands from their heads and almost as one, clasped them behind their backs. Their stance had also changed as both of them stood with their legs apart in what he estimated to be about shoulder width.
Caleb shot a glance over to Ben and caught his friend's eyes for a moment – neither of them knew what was going and both were sorely baffled. Never mind that it was still strange for him to see women wearing breeches or trousers...at least he thought they were trousers.
“Please,” Washington said after a moment of stretched and uncomfortable silence, gesturing to the chairs that were next to the elder Sackett. “There is no need to stand on ceremony. Please have a seat.”
“Sir,” both women answered in quite curt manners before taking a seat. Caleb dragged his own closer to them, mainly because he was curious as to what was going to happen while he heard Ben scrape his own chair from the other side of the room to bring it next to the one Washington occupied.
“Now,” Washington began in a cordial tone, “Mr. Sackett here tells me that the stories of both of you from the future are true?”
“Um, fuck,” Caleb heard Brewster mutter a little too loud, as if still trying to get over the demeanor that had encompassed her when Washington entered.
“Christ on a pony, Carrie,” the younger Sackett hissed, “you can't just curse in front of the Commander-in-Chief.” The younger Sackett immediately apologized to Washington, saying, “Please accept my apology for my companion's rude words. The Lieutenant here seems not to have fully learned proper etiquette while at school.”
As much as Caleb wanted to laugh, he kept himself from doing so. He wasn't sure which one was worse, the curse word that Brewster had uttered quite baldly in front of their general, or the fact that the younger Sackett had used the Savior's name as an epithet. Both were quite offensive, but it seemed to him that invoking the Savior's name was not offensive in the strange, strange future.
“Etiquette that is entirely not of this land and words that are barely understood by us, am I correct?” Washington answered, seemingly keeping any sort of inflection or emotion from the tone of his voice. If he was offended by what had just been uttered, he was not showing it.
“Yes, sir,” the younger Sackett answered. “I also must say that as a civilian, I was also in the wrong to salute you, but in the future, you are a highly lauded and admired figure. I couldn't help myself.”
“Noted,” the general said. “And to try to preserve this 'future' you speak of, questions such as the fate of ourselves and of the war should not be asked, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Brewster spoke up. “Though I already informed the Lieutenant here--” she gestured to him “--that the war is eventually won, though with great casualties on either side and spanning both military and civilians. The Holy Empire of Britannia, as Britain will eventually be called, began their campaign and crusade of peace, blessed by the Pope himself, over seventy years ago in our time. Twenty-three years ago, they invaded our shores and reconquered America. It seems that history is repeating itself because we were in the midst of rebelling against Britannia's rule when Natalie and I were transported here.”
Washington was silent for a few long moments before saying, “And that is the heart of the problem that must be solved.” Caleb saw him reach inside of his coat to extract a folded letter of some sort. “While I was away, I received a scout's report containing the most curious of sketches. While not a portrait of an identified officer, it contains something strange, something that I had not seen before until I took a look at the rifle and pistol that both of you carried upon your persons.”
The general extended the folded parchment to the two women and it was Brewster who took it and carefully unfolded it. Caleb watched as a myriad of expressions played over both women's faces, but it was the younger Sackett who took the letter from Brewster's hands with a clear and prominent frown on her face.
“I can't believe they actually constructed this,” the younger Sackett whispered in the silence that fell across those in the room. She looked up and said, “If this is here, sir, then there may be others who have appeared in a similar fashion to our appearance here. Might we look for them?”
“But does that not also beget the promise of your Britannia people also showing?” the elder Sackett questioned.
“Well, we're so screwed,” Brewster piped up, though Caleb thought her attempt to alleviate – he wasn't sure – the mood fell quite flat. “Didn't you say that MI6's research and development teams were constructing something that looked like this, Natalie?”
“Yes, but remember, I and members of the team that we were in also defected before the ink on the designs were even dry,” her companion replied. “I don't know what it is supposed to do, other than potentially give Britannia the advantage to put down the rebellion.”
“This rebellion and defection from this Britannia, you call it,” Washington broke into the conversation, causing the two women to immediately stop talking and return their full and undivided attention to the general. “As much as it still surprises me that women are allowed to take up arms and serve in the military, I am curious. What unit do you serve in, Lieutenant?”
“I'm a graduate of Westpoint Military Academy, class of twenty-one-seventy-three from the Military Intelligence academic program, sir,” Brewster proudly said. “When the rebellion started, I joined the 2nd Legionnaires.”
“Interesting...uniform...that the Army has allowed women to wear,” Washington murmured before turning his attention to the younger Sackett, asking, “And you, Miss Sackett, why do you wear the uniform of the future Army?”
“I was a former agent of Britannia's civilian intelligence arm, the Ministry of Intelligence, Division 6. I and others were recruited into the specialized counter-intelligence program when most of us were in our third year at Yale or Harvard. When the rebellion started, I and a few others defected. I was assigned to assist the 2nd Legionnaires and to run counter-intelligence information behind enemy lines.”
Silence again befell the room and it was the elder Sackett who broke it by asking, “Sir?”
“Brewster and Sackett,” the general mused for a moment before bringing his gaze to sweep around the room. Caleb could see confusion surface on Ben's face, mirroring that of the elder Sackett. He wondered what the general was thinking about, but it was soon answered with a knowing smile blossoming on Washington's face. “It seems, gentlemen and ladies,” he said, seemingly looking at everyone present at the same time. “That despite trying to preserve this strange, wondrous future, Providence seems to have brought not only the two of you, but perhaps others here.”
There was a pause in the general's words, but it was quickly erased as he continued to say, “We know at least Lieutenant Brewster here, at least our Lieutenant Brewster, survived the war, for it seems that Providence has brought a descendant of yours to here in the form of lady Lieutenant Brewster.” As shocked as he was, Caleb somehow managed to keep the expression from showing on his face as Washington turned to the elder Sackett and said, “It seems that the same applies to you as well, Mr. Sackett.” That same piercing gaze also turned to Ben as the general said, “And I have heard that a descendant of yours, Major, is also involved in this future war.”
“Major?” Brewster questioned. “I thought this Tallmadge is a Captain?”
“Promotion,” Washington simply answered as Caleb stifled the laughter that threatened to escape his lips at just how pale and surprised Ben looked. He had finally mastered his own shock, enough that a part of him accepted the fact that Lieutenant Carrie Brewster of the strange future was a descendant of his. As far as he knew, he had no children yet, and despite his sudden burning desire to question Brewster on who his wife would be, he reigned it in – the year that Brewster mentioned in graduating school was about four hundred years into the future. Even his sometimes irrational mind knew that remembering details about events such as this would be impossible – notes and scraps of parchment used to preserve history would fall apart after so many years. And with that settling of thoughts, he found himself quite strangely proud of the fact that a descendant of his cursed like a sailor.
“Major Tallmadge is my new Head of Intelligence, and I expect both of you to work with him, Lieutenant Brewster here, and Mr. Sackett. In exchange for your cooperation, we will try to find a way to preserve this strange future you are from and send you 'home' and see what can be done about the strange sketch report that I received,” the general continued.
“Hmph,” the elder Sackett said, though it sounded more noise than a form of protest. However, it was enough to catch Washington's attention, and while Caleb had never seen a civilian interrupt their general before, it seemed Sackett was familiar with it. “Perhaps I should take charge of these two young women and their needs, while the Major here concentrates on forming tighter chains and recruitment of other agents in the chain?”
Caleb wasn't sure if he saw what looked like light in Ben's eyes die slightly as soon as Sackett had finished his suggestion. He smiled to himself, assuming that he had seen correctly – Ben was politely curious about the women, and it was the first time he had seen his best friend react that way to women. There was much to be said and done by him to ensure that that curiosity was nourished and grown from the seedling.
“Perhaps,” Washington stated, interrupting his thoughts as he returned his attention to the general. “I would appreciate a report, if at all possible, on future tactics that are both from this military academy's academic program dealing with military intelligence, and from the perspective of the civilian side by counter-intelligence. We may find tactics that may be of use to us to win this war.”
“Perhaps,” the younger Sackett said, mirroring the same expression that her ancestor Sackett had on his face. “However, the actionable reports that might be produced are also based upon what was started here. What we formed in the future is a reflection of what was formed here, sir. Without the tactics used by the Culper Spy Ring during your war would have never been able to be used by the spy ring that is operating behind Britannia lines in twenty-one-seventy-seven. With all due respect sir, if we give you actionable reports, we may completely alter our own history. You may be signing ours and many of our brethren's death warrants.”
The silence that stretched between Washington and the two women was decidedly uncomfortable, and Caleb was not the only one looking back and forth between the two. Finally, after a few minutes of what seemed like neither would yield to the other, their general said, “Then we shall concentrate on discovering where this” – he gestured to the piece of parchment still in the younger Sackett's hands – “foreign object is and how it came to be.”
“And hopefully what threat it poses to all of us.”
~*~*~*~