Chapter Four
The distinct sounds of gunfire and cannon booms continued persistently throughout the many months of war in the South. Yet inside a frayed white tent not too far away from the raging battle, a hardened man sat at his oak desk, apparently oblivious to the sounds of death and destruction. In the case of this particular man, one could say that he reveled in its magnificence and that it even soothed him to sleep on a restless night, like a lullaby.
Colonel William Tavington or "The Butcher" as he was affectionately known to those in the brigade and much less affectionately known to innocent southern civilians, scanned through his day's achievements while dining on fresh bread and cheese. Several burned plantations, a few killings, the recruitment of black slaves into his Majesty's army and several shot ducks from an unplanned hunting trip. All in all it was a quiet day for the Butcher.
Tavington swore under his breath as the ale he was drinking spilt onto an open map on his desk. Footsteps approaching the door interrupted his colorful profanities and attempts to clean up the mess.
"Colonel, Sir?"
"Yes?" his usual brusque yet curiously blasé voice barked in reply. A soldier wearing a powdered white wig pulled away the flaps of the tent and entered, taking in the surroundings. The Colonel, being quite high in the ranks, had more access to luxuries than mere lieutenants.
"Sir, I've just come to inform you that South Carolina has fallen," the soldier informed the red cloaked back of the Colonel.
"I see. Very interesting," the news pleased him and he turned around to face the lieutenant. A smirk was as close to a smile that his handsome face would permit, his steel blue eyes flashed with triumph as he drew his tall physique up higher as though to appear more imposing. If that were even possible. Colonel Tavington appeared more intimidating without actually trying.
"This calls for a toast," he poured another drink for the lieutenant, topped up his own and raised his glass. "To the war,"
"Yes. Indeed. The war," the lieutenant took a small sip as Tavington drained his glass in one gulp, the actions of a seasoned drinker. He then immediately pored himself another.
"A plantation not far away holds the wounded soldiers, sir. Both rebels and ours. I believe the name of it is the Martin plantation,"
Tavington paced his tent; drink in hand and a spring in his step.
"We go tomorrow first light. To sort out what's left from the dregs of the battle. England may win this war yet," pausing to savor those words, Tavington waved a hand at his companion "That will be all lieutenant,"
"Yes Sir,"
Tavington began to pour another drink but caught himself as he grasped the jug of ale. Of all the great and terrible things he had done during the war, becoming an alcoholic would not be part of the itinerary. The Tavington name used to be one of power, wealth and influence. Yet Tavington senior had misspent much of the family fortune in his addictions to alcohol and gambling. Though it was once a fine family the name was now reduced to ruins Tavington senior was, in an attempt to vent his frustrations, abusive and destructive. When he died he left the remaining relations with nothing but a soiled reputation and numerous debts. So William Tavington joined the British Army to regain what was left of his dignity. It would be a long way yet, but by God he would make the Tavington name something to be proud of. In his determination, Tavington grew into a toughened man as at an early age, all he could remember was violence and the dreadful beatings from his father in constant drunken rages. Though many wouldn't agree, he saw himself as a strong man and hoped to someday to set up his own home here in the colony. Perhaps even start a family, if only to carry on the Tavington surname. During the present he was content to do whatever it took to succeed. Even if certain morals and principles were displaced along the way. There were no rules in war; one made them up as they went along.
Tavington unwillingly returned to the pile of paper that awaited him at his desk. War was not all valiancy and gore- it too had its tedious side. Tavington soon became frustrated with the idle work and threw his quill onto the desk in disgust. He was a man of action, damn it, not some doddery shortsighted clerk. Twisting in his chair, Tavington glanced outside. The moon was unusually bright tonight, full and yellow.
Several kilometers away, Caitlin too was looking at the moon- so stark against the black sky that it even diminished the luminous sparkle from the stars. It looked so close; she thought that she could almost graze it with her fingertips.
"Water…please. Someone bring me some water…"
After the savage battle that had occurred literally at their doorstep, the Martins now tended the wounded soldiers by treating their injuries, providing food, shelter and warmth. The moans and wails of pain from the casualties at first had been daunting to Caitlin, who was not use to this magnitude of suffering. Yet she became accustomed to it, steeling herself against the cries and treating the soldiers as best as she could- at the very least to comfort them in their last hours before death finally came.
On her way to retrieve water and fresh towels Caitlin passed Abigale who was laden with steaming bowls of broth, the younger boys Nathan and Samuel who fetched and carried various items and solid Benjamin, treating each soldier equally and with the quiet determination that Caitlin admired. Gabriel too was up and about, having been treated for a nasty slash in his side from a musket during combat. He wandered between the patients and leant a hand as best as he could. All through the night and onwards until the first rays of sunshine appeared in the sky, the Martin family worked. Tired to the point of exhaustion, Caitlin still maintained a cheery demeanor as she carefully fed one of the wounded Redcoats a bowl of porridge.
"I thank you miss," the soldier said between mouthfuls, "Your kindness and hospitality is very much appreciated among myself and the rest of the platoon,"
The accented and well pronounced voice displayed honesty and genuine indebtedness which made it hard for Caitlin to remember that he was in fact an enemy.
"Don't sweat it buddy," she replied as she loaded up another spoonful of porridge.
"I beg your pardon?"
Damn. She kept forgetting that people just didn't get slang in the seventeenth century. And unless you were under thirty years of age, they didn't get it in the twenty-first century either. Before she could respond to the humorously confused patient a far off vibration made her stop and pause for a moment. What sounded like hoof beats from a team of horses were approaching from the distance, which could have several explanations. They were either the circus coming to visit South Carolina or the Redcoats had arrived to collect their wounded military unit.
"Please let that be a troop of elephants," Caitlin muttered under her breath she abandoned the bowl of porridge and stood to view the commotion. Enemy soldiers emerged on foot through the fields, crushing the delicate crops in their haste to reach the homestead. A commanding lieutenant festooned in a white wig drew near Benjamin, who stood on the porch gazing at the soldiers that now surrounded the house with weapons in their hands.
"Thankyou for the care of his majesties soldiers," the lieutenant seemed nervous, even apologetic towards the Martins who stood gathered together. Galloping horses advanced upon the plantation and the lieutenant directed his attention towards the mounts who thundered down the driveway.
The Green Dragoons were a formidable horde, with their leader being one of the most feared men in the war. Caitlin sucked in her breath as the man of her girlish fantasies directed his chestnut horse right up to the porch steps, holding up a hand to halt the soldiers behind him. With one swift gaze, his steel blue eyes surveyed the surroundings.
'Tavvy. Here. In the flesh. In pantaloons. Tight pantaloons,' Caitlin's brain ceased to string together proper sentences, and all that she could see before her was the man that appeared frequently as the main star of her dreams and desires.
"Fire the house and barns," the Butcher said after a slight pause, "Let it be known if you harbor the enemy you will loose your home,"
Shocked gasps and the sensation of being clawed startled Caitlin from her daydreaming as the Martin children grasped her arms in terror. She had to remind herself that these were no actors playing characters in an action movie, this was the real deal. And if the scene was going right on schedule, then that meant…
"Thomas," Caitlin hissed under her breath. She had to somehow prevent the scene from ending the way it was meant to, but how? Nothing she had done so far had altered the course of the 'movie' yet she couldn't stand by and watch Thomas be murdered. Caitlin, deep in her thoughts, hadn't noticed the dark slaves that worked on the plantation being assembled into groups like cattle to be set free and join the King's army. Amongst the turmoil the wigged lieutenant handed several slips of soiled paper to Tavington.
"Rebel dispatches sir,"
Tavington swiftly glanced through the papers, one eye raised aristocratically.
"Who carried these?" the curt question received no reply. The Martin family avoided the Butcher's gaze as he inspected them in turn and as his eyes reached Caitlin he paused, observing as she stood on the deck with her arms around the Martin children in protection. She was determined not to blink under his audacious stare and even raised an eyebrow at him in return.
'He sure is a bastard, but man is he sexy when he's annoyed. Whoa girl,' Caitlin chided herself, 'remember the situation here,'
"Who carried this?" Tavington had finally lost his patience.
"I did sir," Gabriel stepped forward from his place on the porch and approached the Colonel warily, "I was wounded, these people gave me care," he gestured towards the remaining Martins huddled together, "they had nothing to do with the dispatches,"
Tavington read through the papers again, briefly, before reaching a decision.
"Take this one to Camdes, he is a spy. Hang him and put his body on display,"
Caitlin knew this was coming. How many times had she watched The Patriot, memorized this scene and replayed it over and over in her mind? Though even with this basic knowledge, it did nothing to prepare her for the real thing. The pounding of blood in her ears had reached roaring point and she could feel a hot blush slowly rise from her chest towards her face. Time was running out and she had to act soon before it was too late.
'Think girl, think!'
Benjamin deftly took over the situation.
"He is a dispatched rider and that's a marked case," even as his own son was being restrained by the Red Coats, Benjamin Martin remained calm. It was not the first time that Caitlin wondered whether he felt fear. Tavington ignored Benjamin's remark.
"Destroy the livestock,"
"Colonel, this is a uniformed dispatched rider and carrying a marked case. He cannot be held as a spy,"
No Benjamin! Caitlin wanted to warn him but all her attention was focused on deciding the best moment to act and disrupt the scene.
"Oh we're not going to hold him. We're going to hang him," if the Colonel had said "Jolly good weather today" in the same tone he had previously used, one could find the statement believable. The Butcher's death sentences were delivered with pleasure, a characteristic sneer and spoken as though he were talking to someone who was perhaps a little simple minded.
"Colonel-"
"Father," Gabriel hissed at Benjamin, struggling a little as the soldiers that detained him tightened their grasp. Recognition appeared on Tavington's face as he looked from Gabriel to Benjamin, eyebrow raised higher still.
"Oh I see, he's your son," Tavington sounded positively gleeful at this information. "Well perhaps you should have taught him something of loyalty,"
"Colonel I beg you to reconsider the rules of war-"
"Rules of war- would you like a lesson, sir, on the rules of war?" interrupting Benjamin's plea, Tavington drew his pistol expertly, pressing slightly on the trigger so that the weapon clicked in anticipation. Then, as an afterthought, "Or perhaps your children would,"
Caitlin had never had anything other than a water pistol pointed at her, and choosing between that and a loaded, functional gun, she would rather take the Super Soaker. The children whimpered, clutching at her skirts while Benjamin hurried to stand in front of them and flung out his arms in a protective stance.
"No lesson will be necessary,"
"You Bast-"
"Caitlin!" Benjamin hushed.
"No, let the girl speak," Caitlin had aroused the Butcher's curiosity though he still pointed the gun at the Martins, swinging it lazily from side to side. "Perhaps the girl, Caitlin was it? Perhaps she has a few lesson plans in mind…" his nonchalant voice held a hint of something more ominous. This was not a hard task to accomplish when holding a loaded firearm.
"Sir, what of the rebel wounded?" the lieutenant interrupted the discomfited moment, distracting the colonel from his unwholesome thoughts. The angry sprite of a girl before him held a lot of interest to him. Her flushed face and rise and fall of her bosom from the neckline of her modest dress were particularly enticing. He was a man of course and not one made of stone.
"Kill them,"
……
