1781, Louisiana.
Truth be told, Ben wasn’t entirely sure how or why he got… well here. He had no intention of trekking so far south, even so, something akin to a bird song seemed to call for him here. It was not running away, New Orleans was an allied city to their grand cause surely. It was mostly French and Creole after all. Or so he had read, he’d never been. Until now. Still, like a man of God, he would follow the signs and his God. So there he stood, as of yet, unphased, on the outskirts of New Orleans. It all seemed thoroughly biblical to him. Though his memory was foggy, a grand experiment, a struggle for faith and God. Perhaps for the cause, in time.
He was smart not to give his actual name to strangers. John Bolton, his agent alias, was what he called himself here. He only prayed he didn’t get into trouble, or fall into the lion’s den. After all, there are few things worse than a vengeful red coat. He enjoyed frying those lobsters but he didn’t take grotesque satisfaction in it. It was for the cause, for his country and freedom. Still, sometimes he wondered about the blood on his hands, what it was all for.
