The Werewolf of Paoli

DISCLAIMER: History is filled with interesting stories. Many are familiar to us. Some are lost to time that we will never know. But, perhaps, other stories haven't been recorded in history as accurately as we think. Even eyewitness accounts don't always provide every detail of what happened. Some of those details are brought to light when following research down trails both strange and rarely tread. One must be careful and committed. And, one must be prepared to find out some things that can both shock and terrify.

The author of this story, in her love of history, delved too deep into the darker secrets of the past. She formed what she found into a work of fiction in the hopes that some truth might be shown to the world while still preserving her own safety and sanity. The following story MUST be read with caution in order to be believed. Reader, be warned.

It's late September, 1777, in the midst of the American Revolution. We take a peek into the tent of Major General Charles Grey in the British camp in Pennsylvania where discussion is underway to launch a surprise attack on General Anthony Wayne and his American forces...

"Fascinating, sir. But, do they suspect an attack? Won't they be prepared?"

Major General Charles Grey leaned back in his seat, a self-satisfied smile etched across his features. "On the contrary. General Wayne believes his troops have completely escaped our notice. Not only that, but my sources tell me his camp is exposed. The woods around the colonials will help us stay hidden until the attack."

"His camp is exposed, sir? That's a mistake he will regret, if he lives to realize it, sir."

"Indeed. We have the element of surprise on our side." Grey's smile fell slightly. "However, we don't have enough men. Intelligence also informs me that we are sorely outnumbered. They have nearly twice as many men."

His aide-de-camp's eyes widened. "The element of surprise will not be enough, sir."

"No." The major general shook his head. "But I am waiting on a letter which will hopefully bring us good news regarding reinforcement today."

"Really!" His aide-de-camp leaned forward. "There are troops who can get here in time?"

The sound of hoofbeats sounded outside the tent. Grey stood up and went to the door of his tent, pushing aside the flap. "Ah, here is the news now!"

His aide followed him and looked outside. Between the rows of pale army tents, a man on horseback dashed madly toward the major general. When the horse drew close enough, its rider reined up while reaching into his satchel at the same time. The horse pranced and snorted as the rider held out a letter. Grey's aide took it, and the rider turned his horse and galloped off as though he carried all the urgent dispatches in the world.

The aide followed the major general back inside the tent, turning the letter over in his hand.

"It's from Colonel Tarleton, sir," he said.

Grey flipped his coattails out behind him as he resumed his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. "Very good."

The aide put the letter in his superior's hand, who promptly opened it with a flourish and, settling his elbow on the table and resting the opposite hand over his mouth, began to read.

As his aide watched, a slow smile spread over Grey's face once more. But as he continued reading, his smile shifted to a look of bewilderment. He set down the letter and stared out through the small opening between the tent flaps.

"Sir?"

"Colonel Tarleton has notified me of his personal recommendation for our situation," the major general said slowly. "But I am not certain of the man's presence of mind."

His aide frowned. "I don't understand your meaning, sir."

"He writes: 'I know it will come as a surprise to you, sir, but there is only one person I know of who can truly be of the utmost assistance to you in your specific endeavour. I have already taken the liberty of making him aware of your need, and he should arrive, if I am not mistaken, not much later than this correspondence.'" Grey raised his eyes from the letter. "One man? He is sending one man when we are so hopelessly outnumbered? What is his meaning? Oh, and listen to this..." His eyes scanned down the page. "Ah, yes, 'I must also make this request of you, my Dear Major General, that you have your men remove the flints and balls from their muskets before the ambush.'"

"Remove the flints and unload the rifles, sir? Will the men not need them to fight?"

Grey knit his brows. "We can coordinate an attack with bayonets only. It is a strange request that we send out our troops without flints and bullets."

"He gives no explanation?"

Grey scanned down the letter. A touch of fear flickered in his face.

"'My Dear Major General,'" he read aloud, '"I know this is a strange request to make, but you must humor me, for the sake of your reinforcement. He operates in a very different way than you and I are used to. But I promise you this, my Dear Major General, that he will deliver on all fronts the outcome you seek against the colonials.'"

"One man?" The aide's mouth fell open. "That's it? That's all he is sending us?"

"It is as strange to me as it is to you," Grey returned. "However, I trust Colonel Tarleton. He is a military man through and through. I know he would not send such a letter without good cause."

From outside the tent another sound floated toward them. A rustle was whispering through the camp, growing gradually louder. Men's voices. Horses whinnying. Even a rather menacing moan from the wind itself.

"What's going on out there?" The aide went back to the tent entrance, lifting the flap with the back of his hand. He stood for a few seconds in silence, then without turning around said softly, "Sir. You need to see this."

Grey strode to the side of his aide and stared out across the camp. He sucked in a deep breath. "That must be him."

A tall man was striding through the camp. He looked neither to the right or the left, and his shoulders hunched forward. He seemed taller than most of the men in Grey's command. As he drew nearer, the details of his appearance stood out more clearly.

His face and arms were mottled with cuts and bruises, along with silvery scars that had been there for much longer. He looked like he had seen a lifetime of battles hard fought. His hair was shaggy and escaping from its messy queue, the gray-streaked brown contrasting oddly with his apparent age. In Grey's eyes he couldn't have been beyond his thirties. Instead of the formal English uniform, he wore a weather-beaten coat over a ragged shirt and breeches. When he stopped before the major general, Grey got a good look at his face. The man's eyes were a soft amber color, but bloodshot and strangely hungry. The air around him was charged and strained, as though holding its breath. Grey felt himself pulling back instinctively, a feeling of dread curling up in his stomach. There was something menacing in the way the stranger looked at him.

"Who are you?" He sounded weak in his own ears, though he attempted to sound authoritative.

The stranger raised his head and tilted it to one side. "Are you Major General Grey?"

His deep voice rasped like he hadn't slept in weeks (and didn't care, either), dry and ragged. Grey squared his shoulders and took a step forward. "I am."

"I understand you are in need of my services."

Grey raised an eyebrow, gaining confidence in the stranger's solitary, unkempt appearance. "I am in need of reinforcements for tonight's attack against the colonial encampment near Paoli." He cleared his throat. "I, er, must admit that when Colonel Tarleton promised to send me some, I expected more than just one man."

The stranger smirked and lowered his eyes. "Strength does not always lie in numbers, Major General. You shold trust the colonel."

Grey, unsure what to say next, held out his hand toward the tent. "Please, won't you?"

The man looked at him, then at his surroundings before dipping his head and shuffling toward the tent. Grey stepped back as he passed, a sharp smell offending his senses. A smell like rust.

Author's Note Here: As great an attempt the author has made with broken shards of history painstakingly collected and pieced together into this strange narrative, even the deepest forages cannot provide every bit of what passed there in the tent of Major General Charles Grey on the brink of summer's end. Perhaps, in one way, it is a blessing, for the less the reader is plagued by this dark account, the better.

“I am a major general in the king’s army," Grey said as he stood with folded arms at the head of the table. "Do you really think I’m going to just send a single man into the enemy’s camp?”

The stranger slouched in his seat as if he didn't give a care to what the major general thought. “Correction, sir. You do not send me anywhere. I go of my own accord. If you want a successful victory tonight, you will not stop me from operating on my own terms.”

Grey was a battle-hardened commander, but he could not stop the chill that ran down his spine. The man spoke quietly and calmly, but his words and the way he looked at Grey made the major general shudder inside.

"See here," he said, but paused, searching for something that would let him claw back his authority. "I don't even know your name."

The man looked up at Grey and smiled.

Grey shivered involuntarily. He had caught a glimpse of the man's teeth. They were oddly pointed and sharp.

"My name is not important. In fact, it is better the less you know of me."

"That is not how I lead-"

The man shoved his chair back and rose. Grey's aide took a couple of hasty steps closer to the commander.

"Am I wasting my time here, Major General Grey?"

"No," said Grey quickly. "I want my victory."

"Very well." The man turned and headed for the tent entrance.

"Where are you going?" Grey asked, though he made no move to stop him. "We need to have our plans in place for tonight."

The man turned. "You may make as many plans as you please. I need only two things." He held up one finger, the nail long and sharp. "No flints. No balls." He held up a second finger. "When I give the signal, your men get out of my way."

"May I ask why bayonets only?" Grey said.

The stranger smirked, an ugly expression in his pale face. "I am going to be moving around quite a bit, Major General. The chances of me being struck by one of your musket balls is much less likely without them in the picture."

Grey sucked in a long breath and listed his head. "Very well. And the terms of your compensation?"

The stranger stood still and quiet for several seconds, until Grey and his aide felt quiet uncomfortable. Finally, the man looked Grey right in the eyes and said, "Have you any maps of Massachusetts?"

Taken aback, Grey fumbled for an answer. "Am I to understand you don't want English pound sterling?"

The man's lips twisted. "I would rather not. But if you have a map of the Massachussetts colonial territory, I will accept that as fine compensation for my work."

In spite of his misgivings and uncertainty, Grey was pleased that the stranger did not want money. But a map...?

"I am sure we can find a sufficient map of the colony you seek," he answered.

The stranger nodded in return. "Then, Major General Grey, you have my devoted services this night."

"Excellent." General Grey pushed his chair back and rose, planting his fingertips on the tabletop. "We attack tonight. Notify the men. Bayonets only."

"Sir," his aide hissed. "The signal!"

"Oh, yes, right! Wait!" Grey called. The stranger was already walking away from the tent. Grey had to follow him out. "What signal shall we look for from you?"

The stranger half-turned. The wind blew strands of his disheveled hair across his amber eyes. "Trust me," he said. "You will know."

That night was cool and quiet. Grey's men moved silently and swiftly through the thick woods that stretched around most of General Wayne's camp. With troop movements well hidden, the colonists had no idea what was coming. Grey knew he had the element of surprise on his side, yet he was still cautious in his certainty of success. After all, they were still outnumbered. And he had not seen their menacing new ally since the afternoon when the old map he had requested was formally given him by Grey himself.

Grey decided to proceed as planned. They would rout Wayne's men. They would carry the victory Grey craved. He had to keep telling himself that. He could see the glow from numerous campfires through the trees ahead in the enemy camp. They had no idea. It was time to announce Grey's presence to the colonists.

Grey gave the command, and the English troops burst out of the trees. Panic, shouting, and slaughter ensued. Men were running in all directions. Bayonets stabbed. Bodies thudded. Chaos was the master of the night.

But they were still outnumbered. Even the shock of the unexpected attack couldn't completely overwhelm the colonists.

Then Grey heard it. On the back of the darkness rose a mournful, unnerving howl. It was the most chilling sound Grey had ever heard in all his years of being on the battlefield. Even many of his men paused and looked up in fear and confusion. It was a howl to terrify. A howl that promised blood.

Grey would never forget that sound as long as he lived. In his dreams as an old man he would hear that cry and descend into a nightmare.

"Hold! Fall back!" He called out just as a huge, dark form dashed out of the woods to the far right.

What followed could only be described as carnage of the bloodiest degree. The horrific figure, which Grey and all witnesses were barely able to see in its blinding speed, was beast-like in its four-legged sprinting. With the only light coming from the campfires of the Americans, the strange monster could only be glimpsed in short seconds as it thundered through the camp, ravaging any and all men in its path. Screams of a different nature filled the air. Tents collapsed, broken under the weight of the monster. It moved so quickly, it was hard to track as it literally tore through Wayne's troops.

Grey managed to see one shaken colonist raise his musket and take a shot at the beast. The gun fired, and the beast's left side whipped back as though forcefully shoved. Grey heard a distinct growl. The monster stalked toward the man, who raised his musket again, feet planted bravely. The next moment, the beast had his head in its jaws.

Grey felt his stomach churn. He could no longer watch. The questions and bewilderment were dizzying. As his men pulled back into the woods and left the monster to its bloody work, they too watched with horror and amazement. Grey turned back.

He was going straight to his tent and, if possible, sleep off this revulsion and dread. There was nothing more he could do. As he turned away, another harrowing howl lanced the blood-filled night.

Morning dawned as peacefully as if last night hadn't happened. Grey lay on his cot in his tent, his eyes wide open and burning. Sleep had fled like the colonists from their camp. Grey slowly readied himself and went out.

The English camp was uncharacteristically quiet. The soldiers said little as they moved about their duties. An air of heaviness pervaded the tents. Grey had his aide sent for to hear the report of their losses.

When his aide entered his tent, Grey could see he too had slept little.

"We lost eleven men, sir," he said in a shaky voice. "But you might want to see the colonial camp. I...words cannot..." He actually looked like he might cry.

Grey didn't want to. He wanted to put last night out of his mind. He wanted to forget he had seen or heard anything about General Wayne's troop movements and exposed camp. He wanted to stop his ears against the unnerving howl echoing in his mind.

They went silently back through the woods to where the colonists had been. In the soft early light, the gruesome remnants of the beast's activity stood out in even more vividly appalling detail. In every direction, there was no escape from the sight of half-eaten human remains.

"I've...never seen anything like it in all my days," the major general murmured. Horror tightened his muscles and ground his teeth together. This was warfare unlike any he had ever seen or heard of. "No one must know of this. Say nothing about it in the report to General Howe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the aide breathed, staring straight ahead with wide eyes and pale face. Suddenly he darted forward. "Sir, look!"

Carved deep and crudely into a tree near the edge of the clearing was a single word:

CROATOAN

Grey studied it in silence. He reached out and traced the C with one finger.

"Is that his name?" the aide asked. "Wait, where did he go?" He abruptly turned around as if trying to look in multiple directions at once.

Grey raised his head, his eyes distant. "He's gone."

"But...but where will he go? What will he do? Is...is it safe to just let him...exist out there in the world, sir? What will people think when they find out-"

"No one will," said Grey swiftly. "As far as history and posterity are concerned, the colonials died last night at the end of our bayonets, and bayonets only."

His aide swallowed hard.

"What was he, sir?"

"Whatever he was," said Grey softly, "He was not fully human. Of that, at least, I am sure." He pulled his cloak tighter over his shoulders and walked away, leaving his aide standing by the tree. Several paces off, Grey stopped and called over his shoulder, "Have it cut down."

Beyond this point the author does not dare tread. Too much has already been revealed, and the consequences, should this story go too far, are greatly to be feared. The author leaves the reader with this final warning: Should you ever be tempted to stray off the beaten path when funneling into the darker parts of history, examine your desire with care. You just might find out something you wish you hadn't.

Copyright 2022, Summers Rose. All rights reserved.