Two Sides of the Same Coin - A Bendre Drabble
Benjamin Tallmadge prided himself on his attention to detail. All of his intelligence reports were double and triple checked, verified, and decoded before they got to General Washington. He was borderline meticulous; one single missing detail could mean disaster or victory, and he was not about to let disaster rest on his shoulders. So when he realized that the man held in captivity in West Point was Major John Andre, he already knew everything he needed to know.
The man was manipulative, almost exceedingly so, but never in a way that made you feel used even after you realized you had been had. He was charming to a fault, suave and polite, just enough high society and new money to please both sides of the social class without favoring either one. He was a musician, a poet, an artist, an actor. A damned Renaissance man, for all intents and purposes.
The knowledge that such a man was mere feet from him was almost too much to bear. Ben squirmed in his seat while General Washington and Hamilton argued over what to do with their new prisoner. He needed to see him; after reading so many reports about John Andre, it was surreal to know that the subject of all that intelligence was so close and yet just out of his reach.
“Major Tallmadge, is there something else you need to be doing?” General Washington’s eyes bored into him, and Ben immediately stopped fidgeting. Hamilton’s shrewd eyes were on him as well; he could feel the heat of his gaze on his neck.
“Sir,” he began slowly, trying to map out the end of the sentence he just started, “I just…hoped that I could see –”
Washington narrowed his eyes at him, already searching for his true motives. “You want to see the prisoner?”
“If I may.”
Hamilton cleared his throat, and Washington’s gaze immediately jumped up to his aide-de-camp. They communicated silently, as they always did, maddeningly, and finally, it seemed Washington gave Hamilton leave to speak.
“Is there something about Major Andre that we don’t know?” Hamilton asked, a smirk playing around his lips. Ben wondered why it was there, what that smirk thought it knew. “Something you’d like to share?”
“Sir,” he redirected his plea to Washington, ignoring the calculated prod that Hamilton had just delivered. “He’s…he’s just like me. I just want to talk to him.”
“That’s a perverse way of looking at it,” Hamilton noted under his breath. “A little narcissistic, even.”
“Colonel Hamilton,” Washington reprimanded gently, his eyes on Ben. “Perhaps Major Tallmadge has a point. There are, in fact, intelligence reports that Major Andre might be able to help us verify. There is no one better to speak to him than Major Tallmadge.”
Ben’s chest felt tight. Did that mean…?
“You have ten minutes, Benjamin,” Washington confirmed his unasked question. There was an undercurrent of firmness in his voice now, a possessiveness that made Hamilton shift on his feet behind them.
“Yes, sir,” he ducked his head obediently.
Ten minutes would have to be enough.
***
Andre knew Major Benjamin Tallmadge the moment he stepped through the tent. He had read enough reports of the young, handsome major with the dappled grey horse and the golden blond hair. What he hadn’t expected was the upright way he held himself, not like a preacher’s son, but like nobility. There was proud tilt to his chin that Andre recognized in himself.
“Major Tallmadge,” Andre inclined his head. “I would stand to receive you, but –” he gestured to the shackles around his ankles and wrists.
Tallmadge surveyed him carefully, his eyes lingering on his greasy hair, his civilian clothes, and pausing at the shackles. With a movement so smooth it was almost silent, he pulled the key from his pocket and undid the shackles.
“I’m afraid I do not have leave to remove those,” he glanced down at the cuffs on Andre’s wrists. “But hopefully this gives you just a little bit of comfort.”
“Major Tallmadge,” Andre’s eyes had landed on the man’s twitching fingers. “If I may ask, why exactly are you here?”
Tallmadge glanced around the tent for a moment before grabbing a chair and pulling it up to sit in front of his counterpart. “I have some reports I’d like you to verify –”
“No, you don’t,” Andre lowered his voice, his eyes jumping, for just a moment, to the tent flap, where Hamilton undoubtedly still stood guard. “Or your commander in chief would be here with you. Why are you here?”
There was a smirk at the edge of his lips now; it felt so good to have an artful conversation with someone who understood their business; Arnold had been a terribly disappointing conversationalist, and there was something incredibly satisfying about making Benjamin Tallmadge’s cheeks flush pink.
“If I may be frank –”
“Please do, major, we all know how spies love honesty.”
Finally, the younger man laughed. Andre was momentarily taken aback by the transformation before him; serious Benjamin Tallmadge was young, almost childlike, but stern, his jaw always tight. Benjamin Tallmadge laughing was alight with an inner brightness, alive, and enchanting.
“You’re something of a legend,” Tallmadge admitted. “I’ve read so many reports about you, about your accomplishments –”
“And I of yours,” Andre acknowledged. “It seems we are two sides of the same coin, you and I.”
“That’s what I keep hearing,” Tallmadge said, a smile ghosting over his face again. The reality of Andre’s situation washed over him again, and a melancholy settled on his shoulders.
“Listen, Major Tallmadge,” Andre reached for the man’s wrist, the jingle of the cuffs just loud enough to send Ben reeling away from him. “I know that you’re here to just…look at the animal slated for slaughter –”
Tallmadge looked horrified. “That’s – that’s not what I’m –”
“Nevertheless,” Andre said, pulling his hand back into his lap, rejected. “You have the general’s ear. You can convince him to give me the firing squad instead of the noose.”
“I don’t think that I –”
“I have no illusions about my fate,” Andre managed to catch the other man’s gaze and held it tightly. “I know I am going to die here.” A grimace of pain flitted over Tallmadge’s face, but as soon as it registered, it was gone. “I have no problem dying for my country, but I would like to die a soldier, not a spy.”
This time, the pain settled around Tallmadge’s brow and did not move; his eyes looked faraway, like he was thinking of something else, someone else. Andre allowed him a few moments of quiet before reaching for the man’s wrist again. This time, he managed to catch it, his finger landing on his pulse point.
Tallmadge’s heartbeat was as firm and fast as a rabbit’s, as a horse after a gallop. But it was alive, so very alive, and Andre couldn’t help but envy it. Tallmadge would have that pulse for a long while.
“I’ll talk to General Washington,” Ben’s voice was hushed, almost a whisper. “But I can’t promise anything.”
Andre didn’t say anything, but nodded only halfway, tilting his chin down and gazing up at Tallmadge through his eyelashes. Tallmadge’s pulse surged for a moment before he took a deep breath, deep enough to stretch the buttons of his vest, and it calmed.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered, so swiftly and quietly that Andre thought he must have heard wrong. But before he could ask him to repeat himself, the man was gone, the tent flap gently moving the only evidence that he had ever been there at all.
