Chapter 17: Ransome

I found two Redcoats standing at a crossroads looking at a small map. I stopped and asked if I could help them. They told me that they were looking for the Post Road.

"If you'll ride to that rise," I told the young ensign, "you should be able to see it." He kneed his horse and galloped away. "Got any tobacco," I asked the noncom, a small but grizzled veteran who looked at me suspiciously. He dug in his pocket and produced a twist as I stepped behind him, yanked up his chin and cut his throat with Magda's gutting knife. The blood sprayed away and filled the gullies in the well-worn road.

I heard hoof beats and held the Redcoat up until the officer was right beside us. Then I let him fall and grabbed the young man out of the saddle by his sword belt. He landed on his face in the road, spraying blood, and I put my foot on his neck, drew his sword, and broke it against a stone. Then I let him stand up. He gawked at the dead man and then looked at me, wiping the corporal's blood from his chin and jacket. I smiled at him.

"Go over to that tree," I told him, "and take off your clothes." It was a fairly mild day for late January, but the wind had shifted to the northeast, and I recalled how the other British officer had looked after a few hours at Magda's well. "Faster," I told him as he sat to pull off his boots. They were too small for me, unfortunately; they were very fine boots so I decided to take them. When he had completely disrobed except for his fine stockings, I tied his wrists to one another with the sword belt which I then looped it over the stub of a low limb.

"Do you know what your hired henchmen do to prisoners?" I asked him.

He shook his head and lost control of his bladder.

"Ah," I said as the stream of urine continued, splashing on his dancing feet, "I think maybe you do. They use them for bayonet practice and eventually nail them to the trees they are tied to. They do it for fun and out of meanness and because you told them that we do not grant quarter."

The fair-haired boy shook his head, wide-eyed. "Please don't," he said.

"Why not?" I asked, fixing my bayonet to my musket, feeling its edge and pursing my lips. I pulled out a small whetstone and made a show of sharpening the blade, testing it with my thumb. Blade bayonets were so rare that I doubt he had ever seen one before.

"I'll give you money," he said.

"How much?" I asked.

"A hundred pounds," he suggested, his lower lip wobbling.

"Is that all you're worth?"

"Two hundred," he said, his skinny chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Where is all this money?"

"In New York, I can get it in a week." He looked hopeful.

I lunged at him with the bayonet, just arms and shoulders, without moving my feet, pinning a small bit of the flesh just under his right arm to the tree.

He squealed. "Five hundred, please. I beg you."

I jabbed down between his shaking legs the same way, hoping I would not hit an artery as he flinched. I nicked the inside of his thigh and just brushed his shrunken member.

"A thousand pounds, sterling," he cried, shaking all over, releasing a few more drops of urine.