Warning: torture and implied violence against a child.
Late Fall, 1776: Boston
George McCready screamed as his head slammed into the dining room table. His grunt was swiftly cut off as he was hauled upwards by his attacker and then hurled to floor. A kick to his ribs sent another scream bubbling up from his throat. The sound of bone cracking reverberating in ears, tears sprung to his eyes. Clutching his arms around himself, he curled into a fetal position to protect his newly broken ribs as a shadow fell across his crumbled form.
“Now,” the heavily accented, German voice rumbled above him, “I would prefer to not ask you again, Herr McCready. If you would be so kind as to tell me where you keep the funds you have pilfered from the General?”
Letting out a hacking cough, George rocked back and forth along the carpeted floor. Swallowing back his sobs, his hazy gaze snapped to his blood spattering the pale carpet as he struggled to speak. A distant part of his brain dwelled on how annoyed his wife would be at having to scrub out the stains. Assuming he lived through this, of course. Caroline was always exceedingly particular about keeping a clean abode.
Before he could respond, a rough hand snatched him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. A leather-clad backhand loosening a couple of his teeth, it sent one of them flying from his mouth. Before he could collect himself or send out a howl of pain, he was dropped into a chair.
Whimpering, he could barely hear the other man murmur, “Come now, you have wasted enough of my time. All I require is that you confess to your crimes, ja?”
Running a shaky, sweaty hand through his thinning, light brown hair, George shivered. His slim frame shook and nearly sent him crashing to the floor. If not for his tormentor dropping a heavy hand to his arm and keeping him in place, he would’ve slid out of his seat. Mouth swimming with blood, he spat it out onto the carpet before whispering, “I-I told you…I barely took b-b-but a few pounds from the g-general’s…convoys! Besides, w-why would he send a soldier to question…me?”
The other man let out a loud sigh as he withdrew his dagger from his boot. George’s eyes went wide as he deftly twirled it about his meaty fingers. Taking in the soldier’s brightly polished, black dragoon boots, tan breeches and dark brown infantry coat with its black embellishment, he appeared every inch the mercenary. It was made all the more so by his glossy, black fusilier cap and exquisitely crafted leather holster. Save the black Templar cross embroidered along the right thigh of his breeches, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Features only slightly angular and distantly handsome, his face could easily be lost in a crowd.
It made his grim work all the easier. A forgettable visage, a soldier in a time of war within an occupied land, and few would remember him.
“I shall ask you only one more time, Herr McCready-”
“I said I don’t…have…the funds! FUUUUUCK!” George screeched in agony as the dagger plunged into his thigh. Legs shaking as his hands vainly clutched at the weapon, his eyes rolled back into his head as his wails echoed off the wood-paneled walls.
Snatching a cloth napkin from the table, the soldier efficiently stuffed it into George’s gasping mouth. Muffling his screams, he pulled up a chair and gracefully took a seat. Patiently waiting until George’s cries quieted to hiccupping groans of anguish, he tilted his head to the side contemplatively. “Come now,” he snapped his fingers in front of George’s bleary, red eyes, “Focus my good man. Focus, and I shall be done with you shortly.”
Spitting out the napkin along with his other cracked tooth, George looked up unsteadily. Blood poured from his mouth and dribbled down his dark green waistcoat and white tunic. It only served to make it all the more difficult to form words. “Y-you are a monster!” he bleated.
“I am a grenadier,” the soldier shrugged, “My calling is war, my duties to my master and to the Order. A pity the same cannot be said for you.” George let out a hysterical laugh, the sound high and manic. “What do you know of order?” he mocked, “Of civilization? You, who torture a man for a mere bit of coin! Your f-fellow Templar, no less!”
Rather than appearing incensed or insulted, the soldier only slowly shook his head in mild disagreement. “I do not steal valuable funds from those who employ me. Yet, you skim profits from General Davenport’s convoys. Meanwhile? You withhold food and supplies from the men who fight for these lands.”
“Men who have no right to rule,” George struggled to hold up his head. Rapidly blinking back a surge of pain, he wheezed, “Men who use our homes from quarters and kill our boys for sport.”
“My poor, poor, misguided soul,” the soldier lightly patted Edward’s cheek. Dropping down, he picked up the napkin and hastily stuffed it back into George’s mouth. As the other man begged for mercy through his make-shift gag, his hands desperately clawing at the soldier who utterly ignored him, the soldier reached down for his dagger. Without hesitation, he slowly began twisting it. The rip of flesh sent George keening, tears spilling down his blotchy face as the blade was turned a quarter of the way.
Waiting again until George’s screams dropped to pitched whines, the soldiers pulled the gag from his mouth and asked again, “Where are funds, Herr, McCready?”
Rocking back and forth for a long while, George moaned, his breath hitching every few seconds. “M-my wife,” he pleaded, “P-please…my child-”
“I am a patient man,” the soldier murmured, “But even I have my limits.”
“Go…go to hell!” George hissed.
“I guarantee that you shall arrive first,” the soldier shrugged, thoroughly nonplussed.
Without further ado, he yanked the dagger out of George’s thigh and promptly plunged it into his chest. Gaze widening, George’s lips twisted into a ghastly expression. His body shuddered once, twice and finally a third time. Within a few moments, the color fell from is freckled cheeks and he exhaled his final breath. Sightless, blue eyes stared fixed on the ceiling as he slumped down in the chair.
“My, what a mess,” the soldier clucked his tongue with reproach as he retrieved his knife. Picking up the napkin, he cleaned his blade and rose to his feet.
A shot rang out, the bullet suddenly lodging in his shoulder. Letting out surprised grunt, he stumbled forward, wincing at the impact. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes to collect himself before pushing up from the table.
A second bullet whizzed past his forehead, nearly clipping him. “Shit!” a woman’s stunned voice said behind him. As the soldier pressed hand to his shoulder in an attempt to still the blood dripping down his uniform, he could hear the frantic sounds of powder being poured. She’d have to flintlock reloaded soon.
Willing away the pain, he straightened himself and turned to face her. On the tall side, her round form was clad in a simple, dark muslin dress. Her red hair braided back in a simple bun, her pale cheeks were flushed as she focused on reloading. So much so that she didn’t see him cross the room within a few long strides. By the time she looked up, he was within an arm’s length. Looming over her with his muscled bulk, he was at least a head taller than her. All terrifying, well-honed, brutal professionalism.
“You must be Frau McCready?” he asked, voice low and bored, “Caroline, I believe?” Save the way his dark eyes were slightly narrowed with admonishment, he appeared wholly impassive.
She hurled the unloaded gun at his face. It connected with his nose, cracking the bone as she fled the dining room.
Caroline was uncommonly fast. And she had the advantage of knowing the layout of her home. But the sight of her dead husband, bloodied and with a gaping hole in his chest, sent her panic clawing at her. As she finally made it to backdoor, her shaking hands yanked at its handle.
It didn’t budge. Jerking at it again, it remained frozen in place. Looking down as the tugged at it a third time, she looked back at the advancing soldier in horror at seeing her marble rolling pin stuck through the handles and solidly barring it closed.
She could only let out a terrified gasp as he abruptly snatched her by the shoulders and spun her around before slamming her back into the wall. Yet she had no time to let out any sort of exclamation as he reached up cleanly snapped her neck. It was a swift kill. Certainly far more efficient than her husband’s. Caroline’s body dropping to the floor, her heavy clothes muffled its lifeless thud.
“Who…who are you?”
The voice startled the soldier, the little boy suddenly standing at bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. “I ask the same of you little one,” he tilted his head in question. His black eyes were savage and soulless as they swept over the auburn-haired child with distant assessment. He looked to be no older than about seven or so.
Trembling, the boy stammered, “I-I am Whitney…sir. Is that,” his eyes went wide at the sight of his mother. Her head really shouldn’t have been turned at such a strange angle. She was nearly facing the floor despite lying splayed out upon her back. “Is that my…mama, sir?” he inquired, voice high with worried question.
“Indeed it is,” the soldier swiftly moved to his feet. His sheer size caused the boy to stumble backwards, though he did not run. Curling his lip as shock of pain arched through his injured shoulder, he glowered for a moment before his expression slid back to boredom. “Whitney, you said?” he murmured, glancing about the house and hearing no other sound indicating anyone else about. “That is such a nice name for such a nice young man,” he distractedly added.
Expression falling to relieved, the boy quickly nodded. “Aye, sir. It be me grandfather’s.”
“How interesting,” the other man carelessly shrugged.
“What is your name, if you please, sir?” the boy plaintively asked, nervously playing with his hands in front of him.
“Ah,” the soldier retorted, “I am called Gerhard Vonstatten. Of the Landgraviate of Hesse-Kassel,” he clicked his heels together formally and saluted. “Though most call me the Hessian.”
“His-si-anne?” Whitney stumbled over the word. Expression confused, he muttered, “Hesse-Kassel? Where in heavens is that?”
“Oh, it’s most certainly not heaven, I assure you,” the soldier flatly retorted. “Across the sea, so I am quite far from home. Not that I shall be returning to it anytime soon.”
The lad’s gaze brightening, he pointed to the ship within a bottle that sat on the mantle over the fireplace. “I wish to sail the sea one day! Perhaps be the cap’n of me own ship. With my own crew and whatnot, eh?”
Shaking his head is disagreement, the soldier distantly declared. “Not all of us get our wishes. No matter how hard we try at them. For time is short, especially in your case, boy.” Without warning, he quickly unsheathed his dagger and advanced. “You should not have seen me here,” he casually declared as the child stood frozen in abject terror, “A pity that you are destined to be the last of your line. For now, there shall no one else to carry on such a lovely name, lad.”
That Whitney’s back was now to the wall made it all almost too easy. This time, there would no need for the Hessian to chase down his latest quarry.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 7/?
Late Fall, 1776: Boston
George McCready screamed as his head slammed into the dining room table. His grunt was swiftly cut off as he was hauled upwards by his attacker and then hurled to floor. A kick to his ribs sent another scream bubbling up from his throat. The sound of bone cracking reverberating in ears, tears sprung to his eyes. Clutching his arms around himself, he curled into a fetal position to protect his newly broken ribs as a shadow fell across his crumbled form.
“Now,” the heavily accented, German voice rumbled above him, “I would prefer to not ask you again, Herr McCready. If you would be so kind as to tell me where you keep the funds you have pilfered from the General?”
Letting out a hacking cough, George rocked back and forth along the carpeted floor. Swallowing back his sobs, his hazy gaze snapped to his blood spattering the pale carpet as he struggled to speak. A distant part of his brain dwelled on how annoyed his wife would be at having to scrub out the stains. Assuming he lived through this, of course. Caroline was always exceedingly particular about keeping a clean abode.
Before he could respond, a rough hand snatched him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. A leather-clad backhand loosening a couple of his teeth, it sent one of them flying from his mouth. Before he could collect himself or send out a howl of pain, he was dropped into a chair.
Whimpering, he could barely hear the other man murmur, “Come now, you have wasted enough of my time. All I require is that you confess to your crimes, ja?”
Running a shaky, sweaty hand through his thinning, light brown hair, George shivered. His slim frame shook and nearly sent him crashing to the floor. If not for his tormentor dropping a heavy hand to his arm and keeping him in place, he would’ve slid out of his seat. Mouth swimming with blood, he spat it out onto the carpet before whispering, “I-I told you…I barely took b-b-but a few pounds from the g-general’s…convoys! Besides, w-why would he send a soldier to question…me?”
The other man let out a loud sigh as he withdrew his dagger from his boot. George’s eyes went wide as he deftly twirled it about his meaty fingers. Taking in the soldier’s brightly polished, black dragoon boots, tan breeches and dark brown infantry coat with its black embellishment, he appeared every inch the mercenary. It was made all the more so by his glossy, black fusilier cap and exquisitely crafted leather holster. Save the black Templar cross embroidered along the right thigh of his breeches, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Features only slightly angular and distantly handsome, his face could easily be lost in a crowd.
It made his grim work all the easier. A forgettable visage, a soldier in a time of war within an occupied land, and few would remember him.
“I shall ask you only one more time, Herr McCready-”
“I said I don’t…have…the funds! FUUUUUCK!” George screeched in agony as the dagger plunged into his thigh. Legs shaking as his hands vainly clutched at the weapon, his eyes rolled back into his head as his wails echoed off the wood-paneled walls.
Snatching a cloth napkin from the table, the soldier efficiently stuffed it into George’s gasping mouth. Muffling his screams, he pulled up a chair and gracefully took a seat. Patiently waiting until George’s cries quieted to hiccupping groans of anguish, he tilted his head to the side contemplatively. “Come now,” he snapped his fingers in front of George’s bleary, red eyes, “Focus my good man. Focus, and I shall be done with you shortly.”
Spitting out the napkin along with his other cracked tooth, George looked up unsteadily. Blood poured from his mouth and dribbled down his dark green waistcoat and white tunic. It only served to make it all the more difficult to form words. “Y-you are a monster!” he bleated.
“I am a grenadier,” the soldier shrugged, “My calling is war, my duties to my master and to the Order. A pity the same cannot be said for you.”
George let out a hysterical laugh, the sound high and manic. “What do you know of order?” he mocked, “Of civilization? You, who torture a man for a mere bit of coin! Your f-fellow Templar, no less!”
Rather than appearing incensed or insulted, the soldier only slowly shook his head in mild disagreement. “I do not steal valuable funds from those who employ me. Yet, you skim profits from General Davenport’s convoys. Meanwhile? You withhold food and supplies from the men who fight for these lands.”
“Men who have no right to rule,” George struggled to hold up his head. Rapidly blinking back a surge of pain, he wheezed, “Men who use our homes from quarters and kill our boys for sport.”
“My poor, poor, misguided soul,” the soldier lightly patted Edward’s cheek. Dropping down, he picked up the napkin and hastily stuffed it back into George’s mouth. As the other man begged for mercy through his make-shift gag, his hands desperately clawing at the soldier who utterly ignored him, the soldier reached down for his dagger. Without hesitation, he slowly began twisting it. The rip of flesh sent George keening, tears spilling down his blotchy face as the blade was turned a quarter of the way.
Waiting again until George’s screams dropped to pitched whines, the soldiers pulled the gag from his mouth and asked again, “Where are funds, Herr, McCready?”
Rocking back and forth for a long while, George moaned, his breath hitching every few seconds. “M-my wife,” he pleaded, “P-please…my child-”
“I am a patient man,” the soldier murmured, “But even I have my limits.”
“Go…go to hell!” George hissed.
“I guarantee that you shall arrive first,” the soldier shrugged, thoroughly nonplussed.
Without further ado, he yanked the dagger out of George’s thigh and promptly plunged it into his chest. Gaze widening, George’s lips twisted into a ghastly expression. His body shuddered once, twice and finally a third time. Within a few moments, the color fell from is freckled cheeks and he exhaled his final breath. Sightless, blue eyes stared fixed on the ceiling as he slumped down in the chair.
“My, what a mess,” the soldier clucked his tongue with reproach as he retrieved his knife. Picking up the napkin, he cleaned his blade and rose to his feet.
A shot rang out, the bullet suddenly lodging in his shoulder. Letting out surprised grunt, he stumbled forward, wincing at the impact. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes to collect himself before pushing up from the table.
A second bullet whizzed past his forehead, nearly clipping him. “Shit!” a woman’s stunned voice said behind him. As the soldier pressed hand to his shoulder in an attempt to still the blood dripping down his uniform, he could hear the frantic sounds of powder being poured. She’d have to flintlock reloaded soon.
Willing away the pain, he straightened himself and turned to face her. On the tall side, her round form was clad in a simple, dark muslin dress. Her red hair braided back in a simple bun, her pale cheeks were flushed as she focused on reloading. So much so that she didn’t see him cross the room within a few long strides. By the time she looked up, he was within an arm’s length. Looming over her with his muscled bulk, he was at least a head taller than her. All terrifying, well-honed, brutal professionalism.
“You must be Frau McCready?” he asked, voice low and bored, “Caroline, I believe?” Save the way his dark eyes were slightly narrowed with admonishment, he appeared wholly impassive.
She hurled the unloaded gun at his face. It connected with his nose, cracking the bone as she fled the dining room.
Caroline was uncommonly fast. And she had the advantage of knowing the layout of her home. But the sight of her dead husband, bloodied and with a gaping hole in his chest, sent her panic clawing at her. As she finally made it to backdoor, her shaking hands yanked at its handle.
It didn’t budge. Jerking at it again, it remained frozen in place. Looking down as the tugged at it a third time, she looked back at the advancing soldier in horror at seeing her marble rolling pin stuck through the handles and solidly barring it closed.
She could only let out a terrified gasp as he abruptly snatched her by the shoulders and spun her around before slamming her back into the wall. Yet she had no time to let out any sort of exclamation as he reached up cleanly snapped her neck. It was a swift kill. Certainly far more efficient than her husband’s. Caroline’s body dropping to the floor, her heavy clothes muffled its lifeless thud.
“Who…who are you?”
The voice startled the soldier, the little boy suddenly standing at bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. “I ask the same of you little one,” he tilted his head in question. His black eyes were savage and soulless as they swept over the auburn-haired child with distant assessment. He looked to be no older than about seven or so.
Trembling, the boy stammered, “I-I am Whitney…sir. Is that,” his eyes went wide at the sight of his mother. Her head really shouldn’t have been turned at such a strange angle. She was nearly facing the floor despite lying splayed out upon her back. “Is that my…mama, sir?” he inquired, voice high with worried question.
“Indeed it is,” the soldier swiftly moved to his feet. His sheer size caused the boy to stumble backwards, though he did not run. Curling his lip as shock of pain arched through his injured shoulder, he glowered for a moment before his expression slid back to boredom. “Whitney, you said?” he murmured, glancing about the house and hearing no other sound indicating anyone else about. “That is such a nice name for such a nice young man,” he distractedly added.
Expression falling to relieved, the boy quickly nodded. “Aye, sir. It be me grandfather’s.”
“How interesting,” the other man carelessly shrugged.
“What is your name, if you please, sir?” the boy plaintively asked, nervously playing with his hands in front of him.
“Ah,” the soldier retorted, “I am called Gerhard Vonstatten. Of the Landgraviate of Hesse-Kassel,” he clicked his heels together formally and saluted. “Though most call me the Hessian.”
“His-si-anne?” Whitney stumbled over the word. Expression confused, he muttered, “Hesse-Kassel? Where in heavens is that?”
“Oh, it’s most certainly not heaven, I assure you,” the soldier flatly retorted. “Across the sea, so I am quite far from home. Not that I shall be returning to it anytime soon.”
The lad’s gaze brightening, he pointed to the ship within a bottle that sat on the mantle over the fireplace. “I wish to sail the sea one day! Perhaps be the cap’n of me own ship. With my own crew and whatnot, eh?”
Shaking his head is disagreement, the soldier distantly declared. “Not all of us get our wishes. No matter how hard we try at them. For time is short, especially in your case, boy.” Without warning, he quickly unsheathed his dagger and advanced. “You should not have seen me here,” he casually declared as the child stood frozen in abject terror, “A pity that you are destined to be the last of your line. For now, there shall no one else to carry on such a lovely name, lad.”
That Whitney’s back was now to the wall made it all almost too easy. This time, there would no need for the Hessian to chase down his latest quarry.