A/N: Thank you Belka, Kristen143, Lady of Leitrim and HyperInSugar for reviewing the previous chapter. While Belka was surprised about the dragon, Lady of Leitrim found it familiar. I thank you for letting me know about your thoughts in the first place. Seeing so different reactions to it was interessting for me. As it is, I've decided to go on with some more excursion to other Jason Isaacs characters/movies and quotes thereof. It's kind my own little experiment - dedicated to 'The Cheese' - to place as much of my favourite fan stuff as possible in this 'Patriot'-story.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to 'The Patriot'. Just as I don't own various quotes of and references to other movies/characters. Not to spoil anyone's fun to find out for themselves where these might actually belong to , I shall mention the number and sources of quotes below this chapter. Hope that's okay.
Chapter 7 – More Fever
Strength-sapping hours later at the early dawn of January, 18th, Helen hadn't slept a wink. The foreign soldier, caught in a perpetual to and fro between sleep and waking, had kept her on the jump. What had she thought she was doing when she'd offered a dying man a place to take his last gasp?
The fever that he'd already worked up by the time of his arrival had grown even worse. Helen knew it wasn't unusual for fever to rise in the first half of the night. In the beginning, she had been optimistic that it would reach its peak sometime around midnight and start ceasing then.
But any relaxation was long in coming. Apparently harassed by the wicked monsters of his mind, he had kept turning in his bed nearly without respite. Soon, Helen had seen that the moist clothes against his forehead did little to lower his fever. Thus, she had extended the use of cold compresses. At first, on his calves and, when this didn't show the intended effect, on his whole body.
What she had started as an ambitious attempt of rescue, had more and more turned into a strenuous task, toilsome even, all the more as he seriously interfered with her efforts. Visibly out of his right mind, he'd kept falling from one frenzy to the next. Barely able to compete with his abrupt, aggressive movements, Helen had had a hard time preventing him from falling. At some point she'd even feared that anything she did was in vain as the stranger remained delirious to an alarmingly high degree. She had no idea in what horrible abyss he was stuck, but it was obvious that he struggled hard to get out of it.
He'd made a most pitiable sight, hagridden with fever and pain; not to mention the mental anguish, of which she couldn't really tell what it was or where it came from. She couldn't remember having experienced a stronger feeling of empathy ever before. Yes, an actual feeling. It was if he'd passed part of his disease on to her. And she had been receptive to it. Each new attack of fever had increased the tension inside her. Her cheeks had burnt with anxious excitement. She'd winced and flinched along with him whenever she'd changed his bandages. The more she'd striven to restore him to life and health, the more she'd felt her own energy run low.
Eventually, desperation had started to infiltrate her confidence, allowing the doubts to get louder than the trust in her abilities, which had nearly impaired any sober-minded action. She hadn't felt well in her skin. After all she was the one supposed to help, and not to suffer. More then once, Helen had come to see how very unsettling it was to be alone with a raving man. And it hadn't been before the wee morning hours that his fever abated even slightly.
Only when Helen saw that his rest would most likely be of some duration, did she decide to leave her place at the bedside for a while. Exhausted rather than relieved, she wiped the sweat and weariness from her own forehead, stretched her limbs and yawned. When a clearly audible rumbling mingled with her yawn, Helen sighed. Wearily, she put one hand on her belly and wiped it gently.
Outside it was dawning. Fit to drop, Helen noticed that morning had already broken and shook her head. She felt like anything but starting the day. In all probability it was wiser to take a nap. As long as he slept, she should do that, too. Who could say when the next fever attack would hit? Better to regain some energy herself. Helen decided to ignore the sunrise along with her stomach's desire to be fed for the moment. Breakfast could wait and the same applied for every other activity. She would take charge of things – one by one – as soon as she had the time to spare. Right now, she needed a break or nothing would be settled. Helen yawned again and strode over to her own bed, where she almost immediately fell into dreamless slumber.
But it wasn't long before she woke from her now angrily rumbling stomach. Alright then, there was no delaying that matter any longer.
To avoid disturbing the man's much-deserved rest, Helen crossed the room on tiptoe.
However, she stopped for a moment to observe him. It was quite a relief to see him calm and easy for a change. But, of course, when taking a closer look there was no denying the fact that he was far from well. Fever had worn him out. Profound shadows below his eyes spoke volumes about the critical state of his reserves. In fact, those dark smudges lent a skull-like appearance to his face, which stood in appallingly pale contrast. Along with the grave loss of blood, any color seemed to have leaked out of him, leaving his formerly fever-flushed cheeks and lips in a wraithlike ashen hue. Only the rattling of his breath hinted at the fact that his light was still burning, though at an absolute minimum.
This once, no doubt, stately man had truly extended himself to the last. Dirt stuck under his finger nails. He must have struggled fiercely to make his way to her doorstep. Sure enough, it had been marked by stumbling and falling. Considering the seriousness of his wounds, Helen had a hard time imagining how he could ever have taken a step away from the battlefield on his own. It bordered a wonder that he had summoned the strength at all. According to common sense this man had to be dead. Sadly, he most probably wasn't very far from it. Her flesh crept at the thought.
It wasn't useful to think of it. What mattered was the fact that he was here. He had made it so far of his own accord, now it was her turn. In a way she had been asking for this. What else could she do but take it as her duty to care for him as long as he couldn't take care of himself? She'd kind of given him her word. Now she had to stand for it, no matter what the consequences. If only it hadn't been for that awkward feeling in the pit of her stomach that she might not be able to keep her promise.
'Come on, Helen. Don't ponder with an empty stomach, if you don't have to,' she thought and left the sleeping chamber silently.
When she entered the living room, Helen drew a wry face. The unexpected arrival of her 'guest' last night had left its marks all over the place. Candles had toppled over and had spilled their wax. Clothes lay in disarray all over the floor. Footprints of encrusted mud soiled the planks and a dark stain of dried blood marked the place where the stranger had collapsed. Helen shivered. The fire in the stove was close to dead. Carefully she put some small pieces of firewood on the smouldering ashes until new flames flared up again. It was at least one thing she'd been able to save.
For a while Helen kept standing next to the stove, waiting for the radiating warmth to drive the chill out of her bones. She closed her eyes and the crackling sound of burning wood made her feel a little bit more comfortable as it lent at least a small sense of cosiness to the room.
Of course, it was barely more than a fleeting idea that got shattered at once, as soon as her eyes ranged the awful jumble around her again. Disillusioned, Helen blew away a loose strand of hair that tickled her nose. Better not to have Martha come back into such a mess. If she wanted to avoid a severe lecture, she had to restore some order to this room. The sooner the better. Helen hove a sigh. She knew it was more easily said than done.
"Oh well, it shan't be too difficult," Helen tried to convince herself. "But first of all, I think, I'll have breakfast."
Indeed, the prospect of a nice, strong cup of coffee lent wings to her drained self. Helen set a kettle of water on the stove and fetched the coffee-mill, while she quickly went over her possibilities of what she might prepare to eat. Scrambled eggs or pancake perhaps, anything that needed no vast preparation, yet something that would warm and strengthen her. As she ground the beans, Helen took in the rich aroma of coffee and was pleased to find that it nicely stimulated her ability to make up her mind.
Soon enough a couple of eggs were frying agreeably in the pan. When Helen poured the boiled water onto the ground coffee, the invigorating scent rose to her nose and suddenly she knew where she would have to start to re-establish some order. She could see the result before her inner eye already and was quite content that this afternoon her home would look neat again.
In an almost cheerful mood, Helen was just about to take a first sip, when an unpleasant noise from the adjacent room tore her out of her planning. Without hesitation, Helen jumped up and rushed over to the sleeping chamber, leaving the eggs in the pan to themselves.
Helen reached the stranger's side only just in time to prevent him from falling. He'd been struggling to get out of bed and had knocked down the bowl with water and compresses that now swamped the floor.
"Oh stop! Stop it, sir!" Helen shouted at him. "You mustn't get up. Lie back, lie back," she urged him. "Calm yourself, Sir. I'm here. I'm here now."
The stranger lay back, though Helen wasn't sure if it was to yield to her guidance. He didn't really seem to listen. Probably he didn't perceive anything that was going on around him. His eyes danced wildly behind half-opened lids, his face no longer pale, but red as a lobster in seething brew. Another fever attack had seized him.
He murmured and muttered incoherently as if being tangled in a heated debate with himself. Helen couldn't make head or tails of the fragments she happened to hear. In what horrible depths was he caught, she wondered?
"Enough!" Cornwallis cut him off with a dismissive flick of the hand. "A fine officer you are, bested by a bedtime story."
"But, my lord, I assure you that's exactly what happened." Tavington was still out of breath. He'd come all the way from the fields, or what had been left over of it after the dragon's attack, at full gallop to give detailed report on the latest, admittedly not very pleasant events.
"Don't you think I'm a little too old to believe in tales? A ghost. A dragon. That's ridiculous! That you dare to dish out such poor excuses at all, Colonel!"
"You may want to ask General O'Hara, if you don't believe me."
"Oh yes, Colonel, I will! There are indeed a number of question I wish to have answered as soon as the general is back. I suppose he informed you about the immediate abandonment of your most infamous and brutal tactics?"
Blood shot to Tavington's face as he saw that General O'Hara had indeed censured him at Cornwallis' behest. Damn! There was no trace of a warm reception by his once benevolent patron. His stomach jolted awkwardly when he understood that this time he was in for a severe dressing down. And Cornwallis didn't make him wait.
"If you are incapable of securing our supply line against these militia, how in the world do you expect to do so against the colonial regulars? Or against the French, if and when they arrive?"
It was quite frustrating to see Cornwallis harping on the disgraceful fact, that the militia was so difficult to get under control. Especially, when at the same time he was forced to remain far below his full range of capacities. Tavington knew he could as well have talked to a brick wall, yet he tried again to get a hearing: "In my defence, my lord, they won't fight like regulars. They melt away after they attack and we have found no way of predicting when or where they will strike next."
"Militia, Colonel, they're militia. Farmers with pitch forks!"
"I am afraid, they are far more than that. I know the man, this so-called Ghost, who leads them and I will not underestimate him. He has the loyalty of the people. As you know, my lord, he and his men are elusive…"
"Not another word, Colonel! This Ghost was created by your lack of restraint. Your brutality has swelled his ranks, without which this Ghost would simply disappear. For pity's sake, man, I personally appointed you to lead the Dragoons. You have become a threat to my good reputation. Our campaign suffers because of your incompetence!"
Tavington felt he could not let this blame of insufficiency go uncommented. It wasn't brutality that thwarted a quick and successful advancement of their campaign – but the wretchedly ordained lack thereof. How much more did it take to make the Lord General finally see? He'd only just opened his mouth, when he got cut short by Cornwallis.
"What you've got to understand is that we serve the Crown. And the King of England, like history itself, judges us not merely be the outcome of a war, but also by the manner in which it is fought. Whether it is done honourably. We are his agents here in North America and we must conduct ourselves accordingly…"
'And get fat like you?' Tavington thought to himself when he heard Cornwallis reasoning for the umpteenth time. He watched the Lord General working up his rage as he sat at the head of an elegant table set for none but himself. Richly filled platters and bowls offered an over-abundant choice of delicious food that wasn't meant to be shared with anyone else. Resting in the lap of luxury, it was easy for the General to talk about honourable conduct and morals. But, of course, Tavington knew better than to object and just bore the lecture.
"…You serve under me, and the manner in which you conduct yourself among the population here reflects upon me. From this point forward, surrendering troops will be given quarter. The use of these brutal tactics will cease. Remember, Colonel, these colonials are our brethren and when this conflict is over, we will be re-establishing commerce with them."
"Commerce," Tavington repeated somewhat dumbfounded. In fact Cornwallis had caught him off guard with that and left him at a considerable loss for what else to say. War had turned out to be his profession. Commerce wasn't quite his trade. He had experienced first hand how commerce could make and break a man. He wasn't keen on following in his father's footsteps. "Is it not enough, my lord," Tavington began, barely able to repress his annoyance over Cornwallis' lack of acknowledgement, "that I've never lost a battle?"
"No, it is not!" Cornwallis bellowed, thwarting any hopes of praise. "Mark my words, Colonel Tavington, you could do worse than to take an example by General O'Hara who knows to conduct himself as a perfect gentleman in every situation."
Tavington set his jaw. He realized that there was nothing he could say or do at the moment that might break any ice with the Lord General. It hurt him to see Cornwallis preferring O'Hara's smugness to his dauntless zest for action. However much he yearned for recognition, there was no way he would ever condescend to serve with such courtly, obsequious ado. Sweat of utter discomfiture pearled on the bridge of his nose, when he cleared his throat with some difficulty, forcing himself to say, "So let's hope that General O'Hara will always be around to save the day."
Tavington saw Cornwallis glowering at him. But His Lordship never came to rebuke that cynical remark. The door was thrust open and two valets entered, great bewilderment in their pallid faces. They carried a uniformed figure and placed it with a dull thud right on the teak table.
On first glance this all resembled a bad joke, a scarecrow wrapped in a general's uniform, but it wasn't straw that filled the attire. It was a human corpse, its skull burnt past recognition.
"What's the idea of this?" Cornwallis demanded to know. Pushed past the border of his tolerance, his voice trembled with barely curbed rage. "Who is this?"
"General O'Hara, my lord," one of the valets hurried to inform His Lordship. "This is how he returned from the Ghost's latest ambush." Visibly abashed to have none but unpleasant news to share, he timidly added, "I'm sorry, Sir, he died."
Tense silence filled the room as everyone held their breath and watched the corpse with incredulous astonishment. Ironically enough, the only action came from the dead body. There was still rising smoke from it as if freshly roasted. The dragon hadn't missed its aim. Not at all. Once the idea had sunken in, Tavington didn't even bother to hide a smirk.
Cornwallis, however, wasn't quite so amused. "Ghost or no ghost, that man must be found and hanged! He has insulted me personally and he has insulted the Crown!"
Tavington appreciated Cornwallis' indignation. The formerly gloating smirk established itself in the corner of his mouth where it matured to a crafty smile of intrigue. He had a fine sense to tell when humiliation pressed so hard on a man as to push him past the boundary of tolerance and decency, into that nebulous area where he was ready to disregard his principles for the sake of vengeance. Cornwallis had just crossed that line and Tavington would not hesitate to use that to his advantage. All he had to do was to fan the flame.
"Rather impressive for a farmer with a pitchfork, wouldn't you say?" Tavington remarked pointedly. Well aware of the fact that the tide had just turned, he even sneered openly now.
"Impressive, Colonel?" Angry as he was, Cornwallis missed the sarcasm in Tavington's words. "The cheek of that man! He deliberately acts against any accepted practice by attacking and killing the highest-ranking officer in the field.
He has lost me my aide de camp! It is an unprecedented affront of such a scandalous degree that it stinks to high heaven! I will not, cannot let this pass."
Tavington was genuinely surprised by Cornwallis outburst. He had never heard the Lord General availing himself of such coarse speech. This time the Ghost had clearly gone too far. Cornwallis was in no wise willing to pose as the gentleman soldier any longer. He was by no means going to just sit under the insult. It appeared that O'Hara's death affected Cornwallis far more than he was inclined to admit. Tavington saw Cornwallis changing color with nearly every breath he took. The Lord General appeared truly lost as he struggled to keep his countenance.
In fact, Cornwallis had great difficulty in adhering to suitable composure in the face of this bold offence of taking his right and left-hand man from him. Thus he was barely able to hold back that grim thirst for blood in his voice when he demanded: "I want you to find that man and bring him to me, by whatever means necessary, before my good name is sullied any further!"
Their eyes met and Tavington knew for certain now that the Lord general was finally in the right mood to acquire a taste for some less honourable practises. The Ghost had never done him a greater favour.
"I can capture him for you," Tavington stated plainly, making no secret of his determination and self-assurance in the first place. "But to do so, it requires the use of tactics that are somewhat… What was the word your lordship used? Brutal, I think. Alas, an ugly business that would be," Tavington feigned scruples and embarrassment. With fake regret, he shook his head, "You have to know that my sole concern has always been and will always be the interests of the King's army and, of course, the good reputation of the leading officers. I would hate to see your reputation sullied in any way by my actions, especially any that might be thought brutal." He couldn't resist mentioning the word, all the more as he saw Cornwallis uncomfortably wincing whenever he used it.
"Brutal, brutal!" Cornwallis snarled irately, already sensing that he would have to yield the point. Disgruntled, he ripped the napkin from his collar and tossed it onto his platter. "Come to the point, Colonel. What exactly are you suggesting?"
Tavington took his time answering. Unbidden to do so, he poured himself some wine. With offensive nonchalance he then explained, "I am prepared to do what is necessary, my lord. I alone will assume the full mantle of responsibility for my actions free of the chain of command, rendering you blameless."
"My brave Tavington, an army unto himself." Cornwallis jovially smiled. His expression had lightened at the thought of such an easy and comfortable way out. "Go on."
"However, if I do this, I would never be able to return to England with my honour. I should think that one from a standing respectable and wealthy as yours, my lord, would understand that."
"I understand, Colonel."
"Very well." Tavington smiled as he casually swung the glass, causing the wine to rotate and reveal its sweet, aromatic bouquet. "Then you will understand that I just can't get past the question, what's the use in being a disgrace to the name of the Crown, if they don't even pay you well for it?"
"Your honour has a price, Colonel?" Cornwallis inquired.
Tavington stood at his full height and returned His Lordship's gaze, unfaltering.
"It has expenses", he said matter-of-factly. Assuming an air of importance, he turned his head and let his eyes run over to poor General O'Hara. Since his inglorious arrival, the painting of Cornwallis' Great Danes at the far wall had come to hang considerably askew. A contemptuous smile rose to his face as he savoured the sight of declared failure. The time of lap dogs had obviously just gone. Now it was his turn to claim a bite from the opulent meal, of that he was sure. He turned towards Cornwallis again to look him straight in the face as he plainly set out the bare facts. "Honour won't shoe my horse nor feed my belly. What, I wonder, is to become of me?"
For a moment Cornwallis stood thinking. He saw O'Hara, decent but dead, and Tavington, vicious but alive, and quickly came to terms with himself that probably, sometimes, the end did justify the means. Eventually, he nodded and strode over to his desk.
Tavington followed close on his heels, curious to find what kind of benefit he would derive from their just closed bargain. A nice bag of gold or maybe a share of land would serve his turn well enough. With a derisive sidelong glance on the dead body of O'Hara whose decease was nothing short of degradation, Tavington found that his triumph was very close to completion. The poor fellow's corpse still smoked and resembled an over-sized festive day's rib roast on the table.
But when the disgusting smell of burnt flesh reached him, Tavington wrinkled his nose. He doubted that this feast would tickle the palate. In an attempt to rinse away the repellent whiff, he took a mouthful of wine out of his yet untapped glass. The liquid had barely touched his tongue when its unexpected bitter taste caused him to cough and spit it out again.
"Keep it down, Sir," Helen pleaded.
With difficulty, she had tried to provide him with a spoonful of willow bark essence. It was so important for him to finally get the fever under control. Much to her regret, though, his incalculable, violent behaviour had caused her to spill quite a bit of it. Worriedly, she looked at the small remainder in the bottle. Her stocks were running seriously low. However, it wasn't her only concern. His wound, although cleaned and dressed, continued to ooze and needed tending once more. Carefully, Helen placed the little bottle out of his reach and went to fetch new bandages, when she became aware of the nasty smell that spread from the kitchen.
Disclaimer: This chapter contains twenty-nine quotes originating from several Jason-Isaacs-movies such as 'Patriot', 'Dragonheart', 'Sweet November', 'Harry Potter' (at great parts unchanged in wording, yet put together in a new order; sometimes slightly altered to fit into the context at hand). Sure enough, you recognized most of them anyway. However, if you should wonder what's missing, and of course to do justice to the several copyright owners, here is the detailed list of quotes that have not sprung from my pen:
10 times Tavington quoting himself
8 times Cornwallis quoting himself
2 times Tavington quoting Lucius Malfoy (HP CoS)
2 times Tavington quoting Knight Bowen (Dragonheart)
1 time Tavington quoting Cornwallis
1 time Tavington quoting King Einon (Dragonheart)
1 time Tavington quoting Chaz (Sweet November)
1 time Cornwallis quoting John Billings
1 time Cornwallis quoting King Einon (Dragonheart)
1 time Cornwallis quoting Brother Gilbert (Dragonheart)
1 time a valet quoting Captain Bordon
Next: 8. Doing one's Duty
