Chapter 1: Rude Awakenings (PART 2)

Somewhere IN THE DISTANCE, birds were chirping wearily. Cool wind RUSHED by, hurrying ALONG SOME nearby brook. Grass crunched UNDER nearby footsteps. SLOWLY, CONSTANTINOPLE began to LET LIGHT slip into his VISION. It was THEN THAT Constantinople realized BEING HIT with the butt OF A rifle IN THE FACE did indeed hurt.

“Oh, holy shit.” Constantinople MOANED AS HE rolled over, trying to gauge his SURROUNDINGS. He LAY ON slightly wet GRASS; canvas stretched OVER HIM, providing his SHELTER. Dry mud WAS CAKED ONTO his his face and clothes. There were VOICES speaking outside the tent; Low WHISPERS and hushed decisions. Constantinople PROPPED HIMSELF up onto one arm, and ran OVER his FAINT memories from THE NIGHT before. The MEMORIES were fleeting, and CONSTANTINOPLE HAD trouble piecing everything BACK TOGETHER. The FEELING the figure HAD GIVEN him remained, however. In SOME TWISTED way, Constantinople felt he had COME ACROSS an animal no man is meant to see.

The voices OUTSIDE continued as Constantinople POURED OVER what had happened. The ECHOES OF screaming women and children clotted HIS MIND, and he shook it vigorously as IF THEY would simply spill out of his ear like water. He was WRONG. Part of HIMSELF thanked the black NIGHT FOR covering up the faces of the VICTIMS SO THAT he was not haunted by THEIR IMAGES as well. The other part OF HIM IMMEDIATELY lurched in a pang of self-disgust. HE COULD not gauge HOW MANY had been in that CHURCH, NOR IF any escaped. His head POUNDED AS HE tried to remove himself FROM THOSE fog of memories, but THE TURNING in his stomach intensified. AS THE memory of the fleeing MOTHER returned to his MIND, Constantinople again thanked THE MERCY OF the night, but not before THE IMAGES OF what he could make out were repainted in his mind’s eye. HIS STOMACH turned again, this time tightly, and as Constantinople TURNED ON HIS side, warm vomit TRICKLED OUT of his mouth as if it was fizz dribbling out of A BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE. As he wiped the chunky MESS FROM his mouth, the flaps on THE TENT opened up and in walked SEVERAL MEN, DRESSED in military uniform.

“Is this him Gates?” The man IN THE MIDDLE of two others ASKED. He had a long, narrow FACE CURIOUSLY dominated by his large nose.

The man HE HAD called Gates spoke. “Yes, General Schuyler. There were several on site reports. He even beat the Dovers’ girl before setting fire to their house.” GATES SPOKE in an even tone, the PITCH OF his voice, however, was a LITTLE too high, a little TOO GRATING.

“Good God. At least we have him now.” He turned TO THE other man next TO him. “Report back to Washington that we have the man responsible. Any scouting teams should be notified to return as well. We can’t be wasting men at a time like this.” The younger soldier NODDED AT these words and briskly LEFT THE tent. Schuyler seemed OLDER THAN his BODY suggested as if IT WAS aging by some other STANDARD than OUR OWN.

“If I may make a suggestion, sir,” Gates spoke UP, HIS eyes slowly moving back and forth BETWEEN CONSTANTINOPLE AND Schuyler, “we have an opportunity here. We have someone fully guilty of terrible acts. We have the means to deliver punishment. Why don’t we do so publicly? Make an example out of him. Right a wrong, sir. Prove that we aren’t afraid to go just as far.”

Schuyler shook HIS HEAD slowly BUT with a PARTICULAR STEADINESS. “But we are afraid, Gates. We can’t commit those kind of acts. There are lines. What will be done with him is up to the Continental Congress and Washington.” As Schuyler spoke, GATES EYES FLASHED with something Constantinople decided WAS A mixture of jealousy AND CONTEMPT. “We’re certainly not in any place to make a decision of that magnitude. Besides, we’re not yet fully operational as an army. To make such a statement to the British would far too quickly infer their wrath.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Constantinople FINALLY PROTESTED. “Whatever you’re saying I did--if it involved that massacre last night--I didn’t do it.”

The two men TURNED AND looked at him intensely. Schuyler SCRUTINIZED THE man. He had obviously VOMITED ONLY a short time ago; he could see THE REMNANTS OF it, and the stench danced AROUND HIS nostrils. His dark, blonde HAIR LAID IN disarray upon his head. He would PROBABLY be a fairly attractive, average MAN IF NOT for the massive bruise which sprawled across the left SIDE OF HIS face, dancing MOSTLY AROUND his eye and forehead. Also, he LOOKED FAIRLY unkempt. Something about THE LOOK SEEMED familiar to Schuyler though he could not place it at the MOMENT. Staring at CONSTANTINOPLE, Schuyler could feel the ernest in his words, in his eyes. Part of HIM WANTED to believe HIM; how anyone COULD COMMIT such actions were BEYOND him. However, THERE WAS far too much evidence against the suspect TO EVEN BEGAN questioning his innocence.

“You didn’t do it?” Gates spat. “You didn’t beat children? You didn’t shoot women? You didn’t burn down the whole damned town? Of course you didn’t. Except that we have countless people who saw you do otherwise. There were survivors in that church. They even claimed it was your face they saw in the darkness.”

“I don’t know who they saw,” Constantinople STARED DIRECTLY into Gates’s eyes who seemed to have NO PROBLEM RETURNING the gaze, “but it wasn’t me.”

“So we go off of your word? Whoops, that’s your defense, ‘Trust me.’ I think you’ll have no trouble getting all the way to the gallows on that one.”

Constantinople STRUGGLED TO stand up but found HIMSELF RATHER dizzy and fell quickly BACK TO the ground. “I will not go to the gallows. I didn’t do anything! I wasn’t even in the town until sometime after the attack must have begun. I’m--I’m a drifter. I found some tents and slept in them. When I awoke, I found the night disturbed by flames.”

That look, Schuyler realized, was the same LOOK THE BEGGARS in New York WORE. It was a look of desperation and CONTINUOUS SADNESS--a LOOK of despair. This man was a vagabond, NOT A RUTHLESS murderer. “Who are you? And what happened to your face?” Gates seemed REPROACHED by Schuyler’s flat, calm tone.

“My name is Constantinople. I came traveling from Boston. I don’t know how long ago. When I awoke, I tried to find someone to help. Then I stumbled upon the one’s responsible. At least, I think they were. It was a British outfit; one of them--the leader--shot a woman and set fire to a church. They found me, and one of them hit me with his rifle.’

“Can you recall any of them?”

“Of course he can’t recall any of them.” Gates leered at the TWO OF THEM. “He is making it up. He killed countless, innocent people. How can you treat him as if he’s innocent!”

Schuyler calmly turned TOWARDS Gates, his STARE PIERCING through him. “I’d like to remind you of your places, Gates. I am in charge; I will freely question my own prisoner.”

Gates, somewhat SHAKEN, REFUSED to fully retreat. “I understand, sir, but we have people who have already identified him. They seemed more than simply sure, sir. It is not that I question your judgement, sir,” Each time he added this, Constantinople NOTED, IT SEEMED to grow sourer and sourer, “I simply cannot stand being lied to directly by such a little monster.”

“Then leave, Gates.”

As they spoke, CONSTANTINOPLE STRUGGLED WITH his memories, trying to remember WHAT HE had seen. How many of them were there he could not remember I know there was more than five more than six? He tried TO REMEMBER THE face of the FIGURE IN charge; he HAD THOUGHT for a second last night HE HAD MADE it out, but no shape or FORM CAME to his mind.

“P.C. Bowen.”

“What?” The two officer SAID ALMOST simultaneously as they WERE reminded of the THIRD PARTY in the tent.

“One of the soldiers. The one who did this to me.” Constantinople GESTURED TO THE messy mask ON HIS FACE. “His name was P.C. Bowen. At least that’s what the one in charge called him.”

The two stood in silence FOR SOME TIME, turning THE NAME over in their minds. Constantinople gazed at THEM. Gates looked more than FRUSTRATED. The maa HAD carried some SOUR disposition on him FROM THE second he entered the tent. Slightly SHORTER than Schuyler, Gates nevertheless MADE AN IMPOSING figure. He was certainly SOMEONE CONSTANTINOPLE was comfortable having AS AN enemy.

“Gates, I want you inform Washing and the Continental Congress on what has happened. Tell them of this P.C. Bowen, and if the family name means anything to them. Perhaps some loyalists may know.” Schuyler SEEMED TO TURN some thoughts over IN HIS head as if DEBATING on an ACTION.

“So now we let him leave because he rats another soldier out? Or has made up a name? These people deserve justice!” Gates’s face TENSED, and Constantinople BECAME AWARE of many lines on it.

“They will have justice. Appropriate justice. Now leave, Gates.” Gates nodded IN DEFEAT AND turned on his feet, “And be quick.” Gates nodded ONCE MORE and disappeared OUT OF the flaps OF THE tent.

Not knowing WHAT TO DO, Constantinople relaxed onto HIS BACK. DISPLEASURE COURSED throughout his entire body, and he let OUT A HEAVY sigh. Why was I wondering down from Boston? The thought entered his MIND AND would not leave, and Constantinople REALIZED HE had no idea why it had occurred. Did it even really happen? He shut his eyes and tried to remember. THERE WAS nothing; only BLACKNESS. The last memory HE COULD even recall WAS waking in the TENT, yet he felt SURE THAT he had actually traveled downward FROM BOSTON despite having no recollection of such a journey. He could NOT DECIDE which aspect OF THIS was more troubling to him.

“Would you like some dinner?” Constantinople jolted AS HE REALIZED SCHUYLER still stood in the tent. “You were out for some time.”

Constantinople nodded and stood UP SLOWLY. Once he WAS UP ON both of his feet, Schuyler turned and left the tent. Following HIM OUT of it, Constantinople found HIMSELF greeted to a bleak evening. A sadness HUNG in the air as soldiers milled ABOUT THEIR tents, pulling off worn coats and ripped boots. This was NOT THE CAMP of a trained military organization; it was the camp OF SOME scraggly men with firearms. Although, men WAS CERTAINLY A relative term. Some of the soldiers, Constantinople REALIZED, were barely TEENAGERS while some others were likely GRANDFATHERS, barely capable of moving about. As he followed Schuyler, some of the soliders NOTICED HIM at last and began to STARE. Though he knew he had DONE NOTHING wrong, the looks alone nearly CONVINCED Constantinople he had been behind it all. For some of this MEN, he could tell, this war was NOT ON PRINCIPLE, it was deeply PERSONAL.

As they CONTINUED walking, they came to a clearing where a group OF TREES stood in the center. On one WAS A man--his hands tied around the BACK OF THE TREE. He appeared to be sleeping, but CONSTANTINOPLE COULD not perfectly tell. TENTS WRAPPED around the trees in an imperfect SEMICIRCLE, and several soldiers watched the man anxiously.

“We found him this morning, wandering in the woods.” Schuyler said, aware of where Constantinople WAS LOOKING. “He tells us to call him by some absurd name. We cannot even figure out how to spell it.”

As he spoke, two of the soldiers headed OVER TOWARDS them. Only a FEW YARDS, away from the TREES now, the soldiers grabbed Constantinople by the ARM. He struggled momentarily but soon realized HE WAS far too weak. Shrugging ANY RESISTANCE OFF of him, the men dragged him to one of the trees and quickly tied him to it. The noise of it awoke his neighbor who BEGAN TO LOOKaround suspiciously as one WAKING FROM an immersive dream.

“I thank you for not having attempting an escape,” Schuyler told Constantinople, some regret in his voice, “but I must assume the worst, unfortunately. Someone will be along with a bowl of something for you shortly.”

“Hey, I want to eat too!” The other prisoner cried. “I didn’t even do anything. You can’t have me tied to a tree. Aren’t you guys supposed to be all about freedom?” He struggled against his restraints, but they refused to give.

“Listen here,” one of the soldiers spoke up, “don’t you test me, Hlebtastic. Or I will beat you until you’re quiet again.”

The general turned and spoke to the soldier. “That won’t be necessary.” His stare, HOWEVER, said MUCH more. “I appreciate your cooperation, Constantinople. Perhaps you are as innocent as you claim.” Schuyler turned and walked away briskly, eventually RETIRING TO one of the SEVERAL tents IN THE distance.

“Did he say Constantinople?” The other prisoner called Hlebtastic asked, moments after Schuyler disappeared.

“Yes, that’s my name.” Constantinople SPOKE WITH some dejection. HIS voice broke over THE short sentence.

“Shit. I found you!” Constantinople’s head snapped UPWARDS AND towards toward Hlebtastic.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Hey! I said no fucking talking!” The solider had regained his TENACITY now THAT the general HAD LEFT.

“Fuck you, pal.” Hlebtastic said casually. “Tell me. Am I on time? Every thing's normal right? Nothing weird?”

“What are you talking about? A whole town was just burnt down; a whole group of people massacred."

Hlebtastic’s face INSTANTLY DROOPED downwards, AND HIS EXCITEMENT quickly turned to dismay. “I came too late.” He shook his head. “It’s already started.”

“What? What are you talking about? How do you know me?”

“You two! I said shut the fuck up!” The soldier threw his gun TO THE GROUND and stomped over TOWARDS them.

Hlebtastic didn’t seem to NOTICE; he slumped and simply REPEATED SOFTLY: “I came too late.”