The Whist-ling Dragoon Theatrical Society presents.
In Association with the author of "The Legacy".
With Special Thanks to MKawaii.
THE TORCH FOREVER BURNS
Starring: Capt. Robert Bordon, Maj. John Andre, Lt. Col. Banastre Tarleton
Co-Starring: The former Ms. Peggy Chew, The former Ms. Peggy Shippen, Gen. Cornwallis, Gen. Clinton
Performance Dates: Opens Nov. 2nd, 1780
Free Admission (Known Loyalists and British Soldiers Only)
Authors Notes:
I'm writing a Bordon fic. Before I begin, I would like to thank MKawaii for her help and inspiration. I'm proud to add to the growing collection of fics involving dear Capt. Bordon.
NOTE 1: I'm going to be liberal with history throughout the course of this story. For the most part, I have tried to remain accurate concerning dates and major events. I will not put the Battle of Cowpens in July, have the British win the war, etc. I do, however, intend to kill certain persons prematurely, spare others from unfortunate deaths, and insert fictional characters into historical situations. I have done quite a bit of research for this story and I'm a big Revolutionary War history buff. If you notice any major mistakes concerning dates, battles, names, etc, feel free to inform me so that it can be corrected. However, any historical inaccuracies concerning characters, their relationships, lives, and ultimate fates are intentional. So, relax and enjoy the fic.
NOTE 2: Though most of the characters in this story are taken from actual history, certain persons and events are taken from the movie, "The Patriot." I did not create these characters, nor do I claim ownership of them. All the characters and events from "The Patriot" belong to their respective owners, copyrights, etc. Please, don't sue me.
NOTE 3: If you have read any of my work, you know that I rarely write anything explicitly sexual. Nothing has changed in that regard. However, if you are familiar with my work you will also know that the opposite is true for violence. If you don't want descriptions of battles, horrific injuries, 18th century medical practices, and people coughing up all sorts of nasty stuff, then I suggest you avoid certain upcoming chapters. Note also, that due to the way fanfiction.net is set up that if this story suddenly seems to disappear it is because I've moved it up to R-rating. Though I do try to keep these things PG-13.
NOTE 4: I don't believe in the use of illegal drugs. filthy things. Any use of opium or any of its derivatives by the characters is purely for medicinal purposes, assassination, or because it's 1780 and they don't know better.
NOTE 5: I appreciate reviews. Nice reviews, that is. A nice review means that any criticism contained within is constructive and well explained. Do not write something along the lines of: "This sucks." If you think it sucks, tell me why it sucks. I will warn you that I am an overly dramatic writer who is armed with a replica British cavalry saber and I will hunt you down.
If at the close of war and strife
My destiny once more
Should in the varied paths of life
Conduct me to this shore;
Should British banners guard the land,
And factions be restrained,
And Clivedon's mansion peaceful stand,
No more with blood be stained,
Say! Wilt thou then receive again,
And welcome to thy sight,
The youth who bids with stifled pain
His sad farewell tonight?
-John Andre
"It's not too late you know," Alexander Hamilton remarked pouring himself a cup of coffee from the tea pot sitting by the fire.
"I would much rather die for Britain than dishonor myself," John Andre remarked not bothering to look up from the self-portrait he was sketching.
"Honor is relative," Hamilton replied, sipping his coffee. "Suppose we win."
"Impossible!" Andre snapped.
"You must know that it pains our general to execute you," the Marquis de Lafayette said placidly. The Frenchman pulled his blue cape closer around his tall gangly frame. The few embers glowing in the fireplace did little to combat the chill of the October air. "You're young, brilliant, and if what we've heard is true no one knows more about the inner workings of the British army. Arnold was a devastating loss. You would be a more than equal gain."
Finishing his sketch, Andre set his quill aside. "Strange words from a Frenchman known for his hatred of the English. a Frenchman who would defy the orders of his king to fight in a rebellion to rob his enemies of their colonies in the new world."
Lafayette said nothing. Hamilton, being the more determined of the pair and the one infused with the greater degree of patriot zeal, continued.
"You're a brilliant man, Major Andre. The Marquis and I have known you but a matter of days and we can already see that. Why throw it all away when a change for greater glory is placed before you?"
"Greater glory!" Andre cried slamming his fist upon the desk that he upset a bottle of ink and a stack of papers. "Join you in your impossible cause and save my own life only to be remembered by my country, my friends, and my family as what Arnold is to you. a traitor!"
"Your country has forsaken you, Major Andre," Hamilton explained calmly, ignoring the puddle of ink quickly spreading across a large portion of the floor. "General Washington requested to exchange you for Arnold. If you General Clinton had."
"Save your words for one of the weak-minded loyalists or infantrymen who could be affected by them. I'm sure you're aware of the position I held in the king's army. Having occupied a similar position yourself, tell me, Col. Hamilton, even if I did agree to turn my back on the crown. could you ever trust me completely?"
"Very well," Hamilton sighed. "Then you must turn to God for you salvation. You have reached the limits of the continental army's generosity."
* * *
When Robert Bordon enlisted in the British Army, for the sole purpose of putting as much distance between himself and his mother as was humanly possible, he never expected to find himself in North America. Furthermore, he never expected to find himself in the uniform of a dragoon, putting down an army of rebel colonists.
The heavy saber clinked loudly against his leather boots as he entered Fort Carolina. Having served in a non-combat setting for a number of years, Bordon had forgotten how much he disliked being out in the field for days on end and trekking through swamps. His uniform, which had been bright red with dark green trim, was now a muddy shade of brown. His reddish brown hair hung in front of his eyes in dirty, greasy curls.
"I will capture The Ghost, Captain Bordon!" Col. William Tavington, Bordon's superior officer, hissed.
"I don't doubt that, sir," Bordon replied dutifully. Determination was among Tavington's few good qualities.
"See that the men eat something and get some rest. We continue our search tomorrow morning." With that, the dragoon commander turned and started off in the direction of the tents.
Bordon stood about for a minute, dazed. He was so thoroughly exhausted that he didn't dare think of the possibility of riding out again in the morning. Possessed by an almost inhuman sense of practicality, there was nothing Bordon disliked more than competition between regiments. It was the sort of thing that made an army less effective and detracted from time that could be spent putting an end to bloodshed. It was also the sort of thing that inspired Col. Tavington to force his dragoons to forgo food, water, and sleep in pursuit of their quarry.
Col. Tavington was possessed of a certain determination to prove to Lord Cornwallis, the commander of the British forces in the southern colonies, how indispensable his dragoons were. It was widely believed, particularly by Tavington himself, that it was the Lord General's plan to integrate Tavington's dragoons into the much larger British Legion under the command of Banastre Tarleton. Of course, it was a well known fact that few men could hate each other so thoroughly as Tavington and Tarleton.
Recently, however, luck had been in Tavington's favor. An outbreak of yellow fever had struck down a good number of British soldiers, among them Col. Tarleton and his second-in-command, former Hessian commander George Hanger. While Tarleton was recovering and Hanger still somewhere between life and death, Tavington had seized the opportunity to prove himself and his dragoons the better men. He was determined to hunt down the rebel militia leader known simple as The Ghost, and he'd gone at the task with total disregard for the happiness or well-being of his dragoons.
Bordon's eyes clothes, and it is very likely he would have fallen asleep on the spot had he not been approached by one of the young errand boys employed by Lord Cornwallis.
"Good day, Capt. Bordon!" the boy said cheerfully, in the tone of someone proud to be in military service but never having seen battle. "Lord Cornwallis wishes to see you."
The dragoon captain blinked. This was precisely the sort of thing Bordon had not wanted. He certainly was not in the mood for Lord Cornwallis' unnecessary prying into the activities of the dragoons.
"Very well. Tell his lordship that I will be up in a few minutes," Bordon sighed, before trudging off in the direction of his own tent.
His mind was so occupied with thoughts of making himself presentable and ending his meeting with Cornwallis in the least amount of time possible, so that he might maximize his hours of sleep, that Bordon failed to noticed the odd looks that other officers fixed him with as he passed. Several muttered things that he did not bother to listen to. Reaching his tent, Bordon peeled off his mud-plastered uniform, splashed his face and hands with water, and ran a comb through his matted hair. This done, he put on an older uniform (more tattered but considerably less muddy). Upon examining his appearance in a small mirror Bordon thought himself to be far from perfect but presentable.
Emerging from his tent, Bordon realized for the first time that something was wrong. Making his was to the great plantation house that had been converted into a command center, the dragoon observed that there were very few men walking about. Those who were did not speak, not even to greet Bordon. They simply walked past, eyes cast down, and when about their duties. A few who were higher in rank or members of the British Legion fixed Bordon with curious stares or looks of sympathy. It seemed as though a great cloud had descended over Fort Carolina. As if taking note of the mood, the sun had hidden itself behind a cloud of its own.
A sense of fear began to well up in Bordon's chest and intensified as he drew closer to the house.
"It's Tarleton," Bordon whispered to himself. "It must be Tarleton. Why, God, must it be Tarleton?"
The Legion commander was believed to be recovering from his near fatal fever, but Bordon had heard of such cases before. In fact, something similar had occurred in a family that lived near the Bordon's back in England. The daughter, a well-known local beauty, had fallen ill with smallpox. She suffered for quite a while before the fever broke and it was believed that she would recover. The family awoke the next morning to find her dead.
One of the men on guard duty opened the door of the plantation house for Bordon, whose apprehension had grown so strong that he could barely force himself to step inside. The death of Tarleton would mean that Tavington would be left as the only possible replacement Legion commander. The very thought made Bordon shiver.
Lord Cornwallis' office was located on the second floor of the house, in what had once served as a ball room. Bordon approached it and knocked softly, his shaking hands preventing anything forceful. The door opened, and Bordon entered. Four pairs of eyes looked up to greet him. The dragoon nearly collapsed in relief. One of those pairs of eyes belonged to young Legionnaire Ban Tarleton.
Tarleton, pale and rather too thin, was stretched across the only comfortable couch in the whole of Fort Carolina, a piece of furniture that Cornwallis guarded with the same diligence as an overprotective father does his virgin daughter of marriageable age. Despite his recent fight with death some of the old spark had returned to his brown eyes and he wore his full Legion uniform.
Standing behind Lord Cornwallis' desk was General O'Hara. Upon Bordon's arrival he looked up from a report he had been studying.
"Please, sit down, Capt. Bordon."
There was something in the tone of O'Hara's voice that made Bordon stiffen in fear once again. He could still sense it. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
"I think I would prefer standing," Bordon managed to say.
"And I think it would be safer for you to be sitting when you hear this," O'Hara replied gently.
Not wishing to argue, Bordon took a seat in the one empty chair, directly in front of the desk.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Captain Bordon," O'Hara began fixing the dragoon with an empathetic stare. "Indeed, it's horrible news for us all. Captain Bordon, you served under Major Andre, in the intelligence division of the army, during the winter of '77, didn't you?"
"Y-yes," Bordon stammered.
O'Hara turned his eyes back to the report for a moment.
"General O'Hara?"
"Captain Bordon."
"Yes?"
"Captain Bordon."
"Andre's dead!"
They eyes in the room turned now to fix themselves upon Ban Tarleton.
"He's dead, Captain Bordon."
"How!" Bordon cried in an instinctive response. He wasn't sure whether he had heard the general correctly. "When?"
O'Hara blinked a couple of times. "We don't know the specific details. Apparently he was negotiating the surrender of West Point with a patriot turned traitor. He was discovered behind enemy lines, out of uniform, and was arrested for spying. The colonial's conditions for his exchange were that General Clinton give up the colonial traitor. His name is. Arnold. I believe. Of course, Clinton was forced to refuse."
"It's impossible!" Bordon exclaimed. "Andre could impersonate a colonial perfectly! There is no way he. no." Bordon's voice faded as he felt the combined effects of shock and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Sparks swarmed around the edge of his vision.
"Are you alright, Captain Bordon?"
The voice seemed to come from miles away. Bordon toppled out of his chair in a dead faint.
In Association with the author of "The Legacy".
With Special Thanks to MKawaii.
THE TORCH FOREVER BURNS
Starring: Capt. Robert Bordon, Maj. John Andre, Lt. Col. Banastre Tarleton
Co-Starring: The former Ms. Peggy Chew, The former Ms. Peggy Shippen, Gen. Cornwallis, Gen. Clinton
Performance Dates: Opens Nov. 2nd, 1780
Free Admission (Known Loyalists and British Soldiers Only)
Authors Notes:
I'm writing a Bordon fic. Before I begin, I would like to thank MKawaii for her help and inspiration. I'm proud to add to the growing collection of fics involving dear Capt. Bordon.
NOTE 1: I'm going to be liberal with history throughout the course of this story. For the most part, I have tried to remain accurate concerning dates and major events. I will not put the Battle of Cowpens in July, have the British win the war, etc. I do, however, intend to kill certain persons prematurely, spare others from unfortunate deaths, and insert fictional characters into historical situations. I have done quite a bit of research for this story and I'm a big Revolutionary War history buff. If you notice any major mistakes concerning dates, battles, names, etc, feel free to inform me so that it can be corrected. However, any historical inaccuracies concerning characters, their relationships, lives, and ultimate fates are intentional. So, relax and enjoy the fic.
NOTE 2: Though most of the characters in this story are taken from actual history, certain persons and events are taken from the movie, "The Patriot." I did not create these characters, nor do I claim ownership of them. All the characters and events from "The Patriot" belong to their respective owners, copyrights, etc. Please, don't sue me.
NOTE 3: If you have read any of my work, you know that I rarely write anything explicitly sexual. Nothing has changed in that regard. However, if you are familiar with my work you will also know that the opposite is true for violence. If you don't want descriptions of battles, horrific injuries, 18th century medical practices, and people coughing up all sorts of nasty stuff, then I suggest you avoid certain upcoming chapters. Note also, that due to the way fanfiction.net is set up that if this story suddenly seems to disappear it is because I've moved it up to R-rating. Though I do try to keep these things PG-13.
NOTE 4: I don't believe in the use of illegal drugs. filthy things. Any use of opium or any of its derivatives by the characters is purely for medicinal purposes, assassination, or because it's 1780 and they don't know better.
NOTE 5: I appreciate reviews. Nice reviews, that is. A nice review means that any criticism contained within is constructive and well explained. Do not write something along the lines of: "This sucks." If you think it sucks, tell me why it sucks. I will warn you that I am an overly dramatic writer who is armed with a replica British cavalry saber and I will hunt you down.
If at the close of war and strife
My destiny once more
Should in the varied paths of life
Conduct me to this shore;
Should British banners guard the land,
And factions be restrained,
And Clivedon's mansion peaceful stand,
No more with blood be stained,
Say! Wilt thou then receive again,
And welcome to thy sight,
The youth who bids with stifled pain
His sad farewell tonight?
-John Andre
"It's not too late you know," Alexander Hamilton remarked pouring himself a cup of coffee from the tea pot sitting by the fire.
"I would much rather die for Britain than dishonor myself," John Andre remarked not bothering to look up from the self-portrait he was sketching.
"Honor is relative," Hamilton replied, sipping his coffee. "Suppose we win."
"Impossible!" Andre snapped.
"You must know that it pains our general to execute you," the Marquis de Lafayette said placidly. The Frenchman pulled his blue cape closer around his tall gangly frame. The few embers glowing in the fireplace did little to combat the chill of the October air. "You're young, brilliant, and if what we've heard is true no one knows more about the inner workings of the British army. Arnold was a devastating loss. You would be a more than equal gain."
Finishing his sketch, Andre set his quill aside. "Strange words from a Frenchman known for his hatred of the English. a Frenchman who would defy the orders of his king to fight in a rebellion to rob his enemies of their colonies in the new world."
Lafayette said nothing. Hamilton, being the more determined of the pair and the one infused with the greater degree of patriot zeal, continued.
"You're a brilliant man, Major Andre. The Marquis and I have known you but a matter of days and we can already see that. Why throw it all away when a change for greater glory is placed before you?"
"Greater glory!" Andre cried slamming his fist upon the desk that he upset a bottle of ink and a stack of papers. "Join you in your impossible cause and save my own life only to be remembered by my country, my friends, and my family as what Arnold is to you. a traitor!"
"Your country has forsaken you, Major Andre," Hamilton explained calmly, ignoring the puddle of ink quickly spreading across a large portion of the floor. "General Washington requested to exchange you for Arnold. If you General Clinton had."
"Save your words for one of the weak-minded loyalists or infantrymen who could be affected by them. I'm sure you're aware of the position I held in the king's army. Having occupied a similar position yourself, tell me, Col. Hamilton, even if I did agree to turn my back on the crown. could you ever trust me completely?"
"Very well," Hamilton sighed. "Then you must turn to God for you salvation. You have reached the limits of the continental army's generosity."
* * *
When Robert Bordon enlisted in the British Army, for the sole purpose of putting as much distance between himself and his mother as was humanly possible, he never expected to find himself in North America. Furthermore, he never expected to find himself in the uniform of a dragoon, putting down an army of rebel colonists.
The heavy saber clinked loudly against his leather boots as he entered Fort Carolina. Having served in a non-combat setting for a number of years, Bordon had forgotten how much he disliked being out in the field for days on end and trekking through swamps. His uniform, which had been bright red with dark green trim, was now a muddy shade of brown. His reddish brown hair hung in front of his eyes in dirty, greasy curls.
"I will capture The Ghost, Captain Bordon!" Col. William Tavington, Bordon's superior officer, hissed.
"I don't doubt that, sir," Bordon replied dutifully. Determination was among Tavington's few good qualities.
"See that the men eat something and get some rest. We continue our search tomorrow morning." With that, the dragoon commander turned and started off in the direction of the tents.
Bordon stood about for a minute, dazed. He was so thoroughly exhausted that he didn't dare think of the possibility of riding out again in the morning. Possessed by an almost inhuman sense of practicality, there was nothing Bordon disliked more than competition between regiments. It was the sort of thing that made an army less effective and detracted from time that could be spent putting an end to bloodshed. It was also the sort of thing that inspired Col. Tavington to force his dragoons to forgo food, water, and sleep in pursuit of their quarry.
Col. Tavington was possessed of a certain determination to prove to Lord Cornwallis, the commander of the British forces in the southern colonies, how indispensable his dragoons were. It was widely believed, particularly by Tavington himself, that it was the Lord General's plan to integrate Tavington's dragoons into the much larger British Legion under the command of Banastre Tarleton. Of course, it was a well known fact that few men could hate each other so thoroughly as Tavington and Tarleton.
Recently, however, luck had been in Tavington's favor. An outbreak of yellow fever had struck down a good number of British soldiers, among them Col. Tarleton and his second-in-command, former Hessian commander George Hanger. While Tarleton was recovering and Hanger still somewhere between life and death, Tavington had seized the opportunity to prove himself and his dragoons the better men. He was determined to hunt down the rebel militia leader known simple as The Ghost, and he'd gone at the task with total disregard for the happiness or well-being of his dragoons.
Bordon's eyes clothes, and it is very likely he would have fallen asleep on the spot had he not been approached by one of the young errand boys employed by Lord Cornwallis.
"Good day, Capt. Bordon!" the boy said cheerfully, in the tone of someone proud to be in military service but never having seen battle. "Lord Cornwallis wishes to see you."
The dragoon captain blinked. This was precisely the sort of thing Bordon had not wanted. He certainly was not in the mood for Lord Cornwallis' unnecessary prying into the activities of the dragoons.
"Very well. Tell his lordship that I will be up in a few minutes," Bordon sighed, before trudging off in the direction of his own tent.
His mind was so occupied with thoughts of making himself presentable and ending his meeting with Cornwallis in the least amount of time possible, so that he might maximize his hours of sleep, that Bordon failed to noticed the odd looks that other officers fixed him with as he passed. Several muttered things that he did not bother to listen to. Reaching his tent, Bordon peeled off his mud-plastered uniform, splashed his face and hands with water, and ran a comb through his matted hair. This done, he put on an older uniform (more tattered but considerably less muddy). Upon examining his appearance in a small mirror Bordon thought himself to be far from perfect but presentable.
Emerging from his tent, Bordon realized for the first time that something was wrong. Making his was to the great plantation house that had been converted into a command center, the dragoon observed that there were very few men walking about. Those who were did not speak, not even to greet Bordon. They simply walked past, eyes cast down, and when about their duties. A few who were higher in rank or members of the British Legion fixed Bordon with curious stares or looks of sympathy. It seemed as though a great cloud had descended over Fort Carolina. As if taking note of the mood, the sun had hidden itself behind a cloud of its own.
A sense of fear began to well up in Bordon's chest and intensified as he drew closer to the house.
"It's Tarleton," Bordon whispered to himself. "It must be Tarleton. Why, God, must it be Tarleton?"
The Legion commander was believed to be recovering from his near fatal fever, but Bordon had heard of such cases before. In fact, something similar had occurred in a family that lived near the Bordon's back in England. The daughter, a well-known local beauty, had fallen ill with smallpox. She suffered for quite a while before the fever broke and it was believed that she would recover. The family awoke the next morning to find her dead.
One of the men on guard duty opened the door of the plantation house for Bordon, whose apprehension had grown so strong that he could barely force himself to step inside. The death of Tarleton would mean that Tavington would be left as the only possible replacement Legion commander. The very thought made Bordon shiver.
Lord Cornwallis' office was located on the second floor of the house, in what had once served as a ball room. Bordon approached it and knocked softly, his shaking hands preventing anything forceful. The door opened, and Bordon entered. Four pairs of eyes looked up to greet him. The dragoon nearly collapsed in relief. One of those pairs of eyes belonged to young Legionnaire Ban Tarleton.
Tarleton, pale and rather too thin, was stretched across the only comfortable couch in the whole of Fort Carolina, a piece of furniture that Cornwallis guarded with the same diligence as an overprotective father does his virgin daughter of marriageable age. Despite his recent fight with death some of the old spark had returned to his brown eyes and he wore his full Legion uniform.
Standing behind Lord Cornwallis' desk was General O'Hara. Upon Bordon's arrival he looked up from a report he had been studying.
"Please, sit down, Capt. Bordon."
There was something in the tone of O'Hara's voice that made Bordon stiffen in fear once again. He could still sense it. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
"I think I would prefer standing," Bordon managed to say.
"And I think it would be safer for you to be sitting when you hear this," O'Hara replied gently.
Not wishing to argue, Bordon took a seat in the one empty chair, directly in front of the desk.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Captain Bordon," O'Hara began fixing the dragoon with an empathetic stare. "Indeed, it's horrible news for us all. Captain Bordon, you served under Major Andre, in the intelligence division of the army, during the winter of '77, didn't you?"
"Y-yes," Bordon stammered.
O'Hara turned his eyes back to the report for a moment.
"General O'Hara?"
"Captain Bordon."
"Yes?"
"Captain Bordon."
"Andre's dead!"
They eyes in the room turned now to fix themselves upon Ban Tarleton.
"He's dead, Captain Bordon."
"How!" Bordon cried in an instinctive response. He wasn't sure whether he had heard the general correctly. "When?"
O'Hara blinked a couple of times. "We don't know the specific details. Apparently he was negotiating the surrender of West Point with a patriot turned traitor. He was discovered behind enemy lines, out of uniform, and was arrested for spying. The colonial's conditions for his exchange were that General Clinton give up the colonial traitor. His name is. Arnold. I believe. Of course, Clinton was forced to refuse."
"It's impossible!" Bordon exclaimed. "Andre could impersonate a colonial perfectly! There is no way he. no." Bordon's voice faded as he felt the combined effects of shock and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Sparks swarmed around the edge of his vision.
"Are you alright, Captain Bordon?"
The voice seemed to come from miles away. Bordon toppled out of his chair in a dead faint.