OK...Phew! I never thought I'd be back with this story - but this chapter has been on my computer for quite some time. I've made a few changes to some of the sub-plots, but it is still essentially the same story.
Please do let me know what you think :)
Anyway...On with the show.
Jacob
You only know what I want you to...
~x~
Grace Cartwright chewed thoughtfully on a piece of cured beef. She glanced at the men sitting around the fire, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. It worked, she thought, it had actually worked.
Not one of them had suspected her.
She shuffled backwards and leaned against a tree, though she was still close enough to the fire to enjoy its warmth. A few of the men, drunk on ale they had taken off British hands earlier that day, broke into a round of raucous laughter. Grace laughed too when one of them stood up and mimicked the British lieutenant who had protested at their lack of gentlemanly behaviour. He pretended to wield an imaginary sword in a foppish manner, though he tripped over his own feet and sprawled to the ground in a drunken heap. Grace laughed even harder, almost choking on a piece of beef.
After swigging another mouthful of ale from a bottle, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a bitter smile twisting her mouth. What would her father do if he could see her now, eating and drinking like a savage?
"Jacob."
Turning her head, Grace locked gazes with Benjamin Martin. For a moment he looked at her with paternal concern, but she quickly fixed her well worn armour back into place. He blinked once then looked away and took another toy soldier from a cloth pouch. He was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, melting toy soldiers down, one by one. She eyed them, as always, with curiosity, imagining the words for Thomas was etched on every single bullet he formed. Thomas' death was only one among thousands in this bloody war, but for some unknown reason it was wedged firmly in her mind.
"Yes, Ben?" she said.
"We're running low on firewood – it's your turn to collect it."
It wasn't her turn, it was Rollins. Once glance at him, though, and it was obvious he wouldn't be able to piss in straight line never mind walk in a straight line. In any case, she had worked too hard to establish herself amongst the militia to squabble over something as trivial as collecting firewood. Standing up without protest, she buttoned her jacket and slipped a pistol into her belt.
"Don't go too far!" Ben called as she walked away from the warmth of the fire.
Waving her hand idly in acknowledgement, Grace plunged into the darkness of the surrounding forest. Silvery moonlight filtered down through the leafy canopy, guiding Grace's steps. Everything looked different at night, more frightening. On instinct her fingers grazed the pistol tucked into her belt. Would she even have enough time to fire it if Redcoats suddenly materialised from the shadows? Maybe. Maybe not.
Soon she came across a fallen tree and began to snap of branches off it. As she gathered firewood, her thoughts turned toward her father again. He would be horrified and furious and mortified all at once if he discovered what she had done. But, if he had taken her with him then she would never have needed to commit such a rebellious act. What had he expected her to do, to simply wait for the British to swarm towards their plantation like a plague of locusts? As if the Redcoats would have merely bypassed the home of General Timothy Cartwright, one of the most distinguished officers in the Continental Army.
And they hadn't...
Emotion balled in her chest. Why had her father left her alone, defenceless against the brutality of the British? Did he even care about her – had he ever cared about her? Unshed tears glistened in Grace's eyes. From a young age, Grace had only ever sensed cold indifference from him. Sometimes she wondered if he resented her: did he wish she had died instead of her mother?
It had been her uncle who had stood beside her at her mother's graveside, who had wrapped a comforting arm around her. But he too was gone now, dead, drowned in the ocean on the crossing to England. She remembered her father had sneered at her after the funeral, calling her weak, pathetic; a simpering milksop. It had driven the final nail into her fragile heart, shattering it. And so, over the years Grace had learnt to hide her emotions, to shield her heart – the iron-fisted general could not attack what he could not see.
SNAP!
Grace's head shot up and she peered into the blackness. She remained still, barely breathing. After what seemed like an eternity she saw a black bear lumbering through the trees. It paused for a moment and reared up onto his back legs, sniffing the air. Realising she was upwind, Grace slowly began to slowly back away. Once she was at a safe distance she broke into a run.
Back at the camp Grace dumped the wood unceremoniously by the fire and returned to her spot at the base of the tree. The men continued to drink, laugh and crack coarse jokes, but her attention was on Ben and Major Jean Villeneuve, who were poring over a map spread out on a log. Tomorrow would be her first clash with the British; until now, she had been shooting at straw-filled targets. Fear rested over her heart like a shroud, but she was determined not to turn back.
Benjamin Martin and his men were headed to where her father was. They would never have agreed to take a woman across such dangerous terrain, but they had been more than willing to accept another volunteer into their ranks. She knew he would be furious when he discovered what she had done, yet she also knew he would have to concede that the alternative could have been worse – much worse.
...
Grace wiped the sweat from her brow as she lay concealed in the long grass. Any moment now, the British patrol the militia scouts had come across earlier would pass by. She was to pick off the sergeant first; they were the backbone of the rank and file, and once they were gone chaos would quickly ripple through the soldiers. It would be easy pickings after that.
In the still afternoon air, the familiar groaning of wagon wheels resounded in her ears. They were getting closer. Quietly pulling back the hammer on her musket, she moved into a crouched position, ready to spring into action. She had her elder brother Christopher to thank for her accurate aim. He had taught her everything: the correct stance, how to hold the weapon, how to remain calm and reload under pressure. But, he had been thrown from his horse two years ago. The doctor had said he'd died instantly; at least he hadn't suffered like their mother had. Even so, his death still festered like a gaping wound that refused to heal.
Shaking the sorrowing thoughts from her mind, she glanced to her left and saw Benjamin. He nodded his head slightly, giving her the signal. Grace leapt to her feet and within seconds she had pinpointed the troop's hook-nosed sergeant. He was dead before the Redcoats had even primed their muskets.
The skirmish only latest a few minutes and, as the smoke cleared, Grace stepped out from the long grass. She made her way towards the bodies strewn across the ground. Blood still flowed from their wounds, their bodies were still warm, soft, but it didn't stop her from rummaging through every pocket and bag for coins. She knew it was callous, but dead men had no use for them. She did.
Grace heard the rumbling first. She stood up and turned around, squinting against the glare of the sun. In the distance, she saw clouds of red dust. It only took a heartbeat to realise what was bearing down on them.
"Dragoons!" she shouted. "They're coming over the rise!"
In an instant, every man was on alert.
Ben began to bark orders. "Quickly, get the weapons out of the wagon."
As the men scrambled to unload the weapons, Grace reloaded her musket. Her heart thumped in her chest, almost beating in time with the pounding hooves. Dragoons were predators, always thirsty for rebel blood. They would be cut down like stalks of wheat at harvest time if they could not make it to the trees in time.
"Faster, faster!" she heard Ben snap.
Grace fired off a shot, along with several other men, but it did little to break the solid line formation. Drawn sabres glinted in the sunlight, capable of cleaving flesh from bone. And, at two hundred yards Grace saw what she dreaded most, and her blood froze.
"BEN! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!" Grace sprinted towards the wagon. "IT'S HIM –IT'S TAVINGTON!"
The men were frantic now. Ben told them to drop everything and run straight for the tree line. Tavington was brutal and giving quarter was a foreign concept to him. Grace slung her musket over her shoulder and ran. The ground shook beneath her, it felt like she in the middle of a thunder storm.
Then the bullets began to fly.
Her lungs were on fire but she forced herself to keep running. She never saw the bullet whizzing past her head until it was too late. It hit Peter Wilson with a sickening thud, burying itself deep into his back. He dropped like a stone and, unable to avoid him, Grace tripped over his lifeless body. Her hands and knees took the brunt of the impact with the ground, but as she scrambled to get back up, she felt the point of a sabre between her shoulder blades.
"Do not move or you will join him," a gruff but polished voice said.
Grace stared at the grass, fighting to control her breathing...and her fear. She heard orders being barked for the dragoons to retreat back from the tree line. Their element of surprise was gone, and the forests were the militia's death traps. Sabres and horses were no match for sharpshooters amongst the dense foliage.
"How many have you got alive, Bordon?"
"One."
Grace grunted as a boot connected with her ribs, forcing her to roll over onto her back. She swallowed hard as she stared into the harsh, pitiless face of Colonel Tavington – the Butcher of the Carolinas. His steely blue eyes narrowed as they studied her. Although handsome, with a well-formed mouth and straight nose, a dark sternness marked his every feature, making him look far from inviting. He was beautiful but cold.
The officer named Bordon kept his sabre trained on her, even though he could probably snap her like a twig, with one hand. What are they waiting for, she thought, why don't they just kill me and be done with it?
"He's young," Bordon said.
Grace heard the hesitation in his voice, sensing a compassion that belied his fierce countenance. But Tavington merely regarded him with distain, and then to her horror he pulled a pistol from his belt. He drew back the hammer and pointed it straight at her head.
"How old are you, boy?" Tavington said with all the warmth of a frozen lake.
Swallowing hard, Grace answered, "Fifteen, sir."
Tavington shifted the hammer back into place and a cruel sneer twisted his lips. "He has killed like a man, Bordon, so let him die like one."
The cold, crisp voice sent chills through Grace's body. She now knew what fated awaited her. She was going to be hanged. Suddenly, she felt weightless as she was hauled to her feet, her arms then forced behind her back. Rope bit into her wrists, but kept she silent – she refused to show a single sign of weakness.
It didn't take long for the British to secure the prisoners – eight of them in all. Grace glanced around the blood soaked field, trying to count the bodies, wondering if Ben and Gabriel had escaped or if they were among the dead.
"Walk," a dragoon ordered, shoving her forward.
Grace pressed her lips tightly together and fell into step with the other seven men without a word. Their bodies sagged, their faces reflecting the inevitable fate that awaited them. She wondered if they were thinking of those they had left behind: wives, children, lovers. A surge of unbidden emotion swept over her: her father did not even know where she was. She would die, and no one would mourn her. Blinking back the tears threatening to fill her eyes, she stared resolutely at the road in front of her. If by some miracle her father did learn of her capture, then maybe, for once, she could make him proud by staring death in the face unwaveringly.
...
A blood red sun hung low on the horizon as William Tavington dismounted his horse, leaving it in the care of a stable hand. He ordered a young lieutenant to see to the prisoners and then motioned for Bordon to follow him. The attacks on British patrols and supply trains were becoming more and more frequent, and William was beginning to feel the squeeze of pressure from his superiors to put an end to them. Rumours abounded throughout the towns and villages concerning the leader of the militia, but all of them pointed to a ghost, or more precisely, to a farmer by the name of Benjamin Martin.
"Shall I begin questioning the prisoners now?" Bordon said, drawing him from his thoughts.
"Yes, and you have my permission to use any means –"
"Papa! Papa!"
William and Bordon turned as one. A girl, no more than six, was hurrying towards them, her long red hair whipped around her face as she ran.
"Carrie! What are you doing out here on your own?" Bordon demanded, bringing the girl to an abrupt halt.
She looked at the ground and shuffled her feet. "I...I wanted to see you, Papa..."
Bordon merely glared at her. "You know better than to go wandering about the camp. Where is your mother?"
Carrie shrugged her shoulders.
"Caroline May Bordon you will answer me now!"
Her head snapped up at her father's severe tone. "She's sleeping..."
"So you thought you'd sneak out, is that it?"
William heaved an irritated sigh; he had no tolerance for children, especially Carrie Bordon. More than once he had tried to convince Bordon to leave his wife and daughter in a loyalist village, or to send them to Charlestown. But the man would not hear of it; indeed, he had threatened to resign his commission if William forced him to abandon his family. In the end, he had let the matter drop. Bordon was too valuable an office to lose.
Clearing his throat impatiently, William said, "See to her, Bordon, then join me at the holding cell."
Striding away, he left Bordon to attend to his daughter. William could never understand why any man would want to be a father. He had been happy to let his younger brother carry on the Tavington line, not that their name was worth much after their father squandered their inheritance.
Bitterness crawled up his throat at the thought of his father. A drunkard, he had gambled away almost every last penny the family had. William had only purchased his commission as a cornet, when his brother had written to him to inform him of their father's death. He had met the news with mixed emotions, though whatever grief he had felt quickly turned to anger as he learnt of the enormous debt his father had incurred. Thankfully, the Tavington estate had been spared being sold, only by the fact that his mother conceded to let the manor be rented.
Of course, William intended to return to England after the war with enough spoils to refill the Tavington coffers. It would be a slow and gruelling process, but his family would once more be accepted back into good society.
As he approached the cell the soldiers standing guard stood to attention. He ignored them, instead he studied the prisoners. Three paced like caged animals, the others appeared to be in silent prayer. However, his gaze lingered on the youngest, struck by the quiet determination in his eyes. How old had the boy said he was – fifteen?
"Captain Bordon, sir."
William turned at the salute by one of the soldiers and eyed Bordon coolly.
"I apologise," Bordon said, "It won't happen again."
Somehow William doubted that. After all, he had said that the last time, and the time before that. If Carrie was his daughter, he would have made certain she did not disobey him again. But Bordon could barely stay angry the girl for any length of time, and one time William had suggested canning her, the man had bristled at the very notion of it.
...
From the corner of the makeshift wooden cell, Grace surreptitiously watched Tavington and the other officer called Bordon. Self-assured and oozing arrogance, the colonel stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the cool expression etched on his features clearly indicating that he was not particularly pleased with the captain. If Bordon was fazed by it, then he managed to keep it well hidden. The man was as hard to see through as a slab of granite buried under ten feet of snow.
The two officers then turned their attention to the cell. Grace could almost feel the noose tightening around her neck. Had they already picked out what trees to hang them all from? Or was that what they were here to do? Something inside of her, she wasn't sure what, whispered for her to reveal who she really was – they wouldn't dare hang a woman, especially not the daughter of a Continental general. The quiet voice was quickly smothered by a thick darkness: it was better to die than to bring shame on her father, as the British would not hesitate to exploit her for their own gains.
"We'll start with that one," Tavington said, pointing to Jeremiah Blackwood.
The cell gate was unlocked and four privates entered.
"Where are you taking him?" Alexander Anderson demanded.
"Stay back!" a private said, pointing the bayonet on his musket menacingly at the belly of a militiaman.
Anderson spat on the ground. "You ain't taking him nowhere."
"Shut your bloody mouth, or I'll shut it for you," the private growled.
Suddenly, John Peterson lunged at the private, ripping the musket from his hands. In the space of two breaths he had plunged the bayonet into the soldier's gut. "Get the other ones," he shouted.
The soldiers around Grace went berserk; they fired their muskets and ran at the militiamen, stabbing with their bayonets. In the chaos, she heard Tavington shouting for them to desist. Grace dodged a poorly aimed thrust of a musket, but the butt of another musket was dashed against the side of her head. Her vision blurred and her stomach lurched. She sunk to her knees, feeling warm blood trickle down her face and neck.
"You goddamned...bloody fools...damn you..." she heard Tavington sputter furiously. "They're all bloody dead! What use are they to me now?"
The world spun around Grace as it grew darker. She felt a hand on her shoulder and two fingers were pressed into the soft flesh of her throat, feeling for a pulse.
"Colonel," Bordon's deep voice resounded beside her ear. "This one is still alive."
It was the last thing she heard as her eyes rolled into the back of head.
...
William turned away from the privates. They were fortunate they were infantry, and not under his command; otherwise, he would have them flogged for negligence. He would, however, have strong words with their commanding officer, Colonel Fowler.
"He doesn't look very alive, Bordon," William said dryly, frustration coursing through him.
"We need to take him to the medical tent," Bordon said, still crouched over the boy. "He'll be dead soon if we don't."
William's mouth thinned into a flat line. "Very well, then, but inform me when he awakens."
Bordon nodded. "You," he snapped at two privates. "Pick him up and carry him to the medical tent."
Scurrying to carrying out his orders, the two men picked up the unconscious militiaman and carried him from the cell.
...
Bordon followed after the two soldiers. There was a definite mixture of fear and relief on their faces; he imagined they had never been so thankful they were infantrymen, probably because Colonel Fowler would not take any action against his men. He had never hidden his dislike of Tavington, though Bordon suspected it was because he resented his counterpart's natural ability to command and strategise, added to the small detail that Tavington had risen from a cornet to a lieutenant colonel on merit alone.
Once they had reached the medical tent Bordon dismissed the privates. The doctor tutted as he examined the gash on the young man's head.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he assured Bordon.
The doctor called for his assistant and sent him to gather what he needed to clean and dress the wound. Then, taking a knife, he began to cut open the bloodied shirt of the patient. As he peeled the material back, however, a gasp escaped his lips.
"Captain..." he said, unsteadily. "What is the meaning of this?"
Bordon arched an eyebrow quizzically. "Meaning of what?"
"This man is a...a, well, he is a she..."