Duel For You, Ben Davidson
Written By: Commander Cody CC-2224
CHAPTER 7
Breakfast With Lady Duffman – PART II
Graceful hand-clapping applause resounded across the room. A rather unenthusiastic Walter clapped in an unenthusiastic manner. Ben didn't seem to mind clapping to the performance at all. After all, Ben could be courteous if he so wanted to.
"That was very beautifully performed, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Cole, as she beamed dotingly upon her daughter.
"Aye, I should agree," Mrs. Merriman concurred with Mrs. Cole.
"Nicely done, mate," added Walter.
Elizabeth beamed back at Walter in gratitude for his flattering comment. "Why, thank you, Walter-dear," she said to him sweetly.
Walter nodded before turning his head over to the Lady Duffman whilst standing from his seat before her and her guests. "Now that I offered my gracious compliments to the female spinet player, is there…by any chance…anything of any edible and delectable sort to eat around here?"
"Pianoforte, pianoforte," enunciated Ben in a whisper, annoyed mostly over Walter getting it wrong, whether intentionally or not.
"Of course, Mr. Wheaton," answered Lady Duffman. She took a china platter full of large homemade buttermilk biscuits from the midst of the breakfast table and offered it to Walter.
"Here," she said. "Help yourself to a biscuit."
Walter immediately grabbed a biscuit from the platter, almost vibrating it in Lady Duffman's hand, without a second thought. "Oh, thank heaven," he said with relief. "I'm starving. Literally."
Felicity laughed humorously at Walter. "You're not starving, Walter," she said to him with great impishness.
Walter was busying to himself to munching casually on his biscuit. "Yes, I am," he replied indignantly. "I haven't got to eat goodly biscuits such as that often since the whole bloody war. We were forced to resort to hardtack most of the days."
"Didn't you get to have any good biscuits?" queried Elizabeth curiously.
"Well, if we were going to embark on a special mission, we'd have to eat pretty well," answered Walter quickly, as if he liked talking about his days in the back in the Fifth Regiment. "But most of the time, when we're on reserve duty…it's the regular Continental. And mark my words, 'tis not about the best breakfast ever."
Walter continued wolfing down his biscuit. What he implied at this point was rationed soldiers' meals, which were the main course on most days.
"Gracious, Mr. Wheaton!" Lady Duffman exclaimed over Walter's shocking manner of devouring food. "Slow down! This is teatime food, not a buffet!"
Walter immediately grabbed another biscuit from the tray, almost ignoring Lady Duffman's indignations.
"So, tell me, dear Walter," said Lady Duffman, now a mite calmer. "How is Sarah?"
"What?" asked Walter while chewing on his biscuit, speaking with his mouth full.
"Your girl, Sarah Bennett," Lady Duffman informed him in her mild specifications. "Soon to be Sarah Bennett Wheaton, I wager?"
"Just getting about," answered Walter, still with his mouth full. "A year's worth till, give or take, 'fore we get married." He sounded pretty anxious and impatient to get married to his girl soon.
"I see," said Lady Duffman in a rather observant manner. "'Twould be best if you and Sarah didn't wait too long. Youth does not remain on the young forever."
"My arse she does," Walter muttered to himself rather cynically.
It seemed that Mrs. Cole heard what Walter was saying. "Such language!" she exclaimed objectionably, as she took notice of what Walter had just said to himself.
"Walter…" Mrs. Merriman said to him disapprovingly, seeming to take not of Mrs. Cole's objections. Lady Duffman just simply rolled her eyes as she casually took another sip of her English tea.
"Your daughter seems to be especially quite…bold," Lady Duffman declared pretty speculatively to Mrs. Merriman.
Mrs. Merriman made a light chuckle in response. "Should I take that as a compliment?" she asked.
"I think you should," declared Lady Duffman right away. It is to my observance…after hearing of the results of the war that boldness seems to be the fad and fashion among the colonists."
"Like me," cut in Walter.
"Likewise, Walter has just concurred my point," Lady Duffman said supportively of Walter. "Which…brings me to another point, if I so may continue."
Lady Duffman decided to see for herself the anticipative behaviors among her guests.
"There have been strange…rumors…over heroic actions done by individuals of the opposite sex, and I wonder whether your daughter had a part in them."
Mrs. Merriman darted her eyes back and forth a bit nervously, most likely out of unintended bashfulness over having a daughter doing boneheaded things. "Some things my daughter had a part in them," she said rather vaguely.
"She warned the colonists of Lord Dunmore's plot to steal our gunpowder," put in Ben, in reference to the gunpowder plot of April of 1775, back before the day of Felicity's tenth birthday.
"That was during my birthday," said Felicity, almost blushing. "Ben, you're making me blush like a newborn babe."
Despite Walter busying himself to munching on a third buttermilk biscuit, he was able to take part in the conversations to a bit of an extent. "For a bit of a girl, that don't sound half-bad," he opinionated.
Felicity shot Walter a rather unfriendly scowl. "Don't you call me a 'bit of a girl', Walter Wheaton!" she spat. "You speak as though I'm just a mere child! And at a time in my life when I want to be my own self when I'm growing up." For a child already come of age, being called a "bit of a girl" implied childishness on her part. But Walter still thought differently, though for humorous reasons.
"Well, you're still a child," he said. "In a manner of speaking, that is."
"How would you like me to say something like that to your sweetheart?" challenged Felicity, still facing Walter.
"Oh God!" exclaimed Walter sarcastically. "You don't mean that!"
"Yes, I do, Walter Wheaton," Felicity teased, while grinning her impish grin.
"Lissie, please," said Mrs. Merriman softly but with a tinge of exasperation.
"And it is 'doesn't', not 'don't'," Felicity corrected Walter in addition to teasing him. He just shrugged her off with the wave of his right hand in a downward direction. Until everyone settled down to a fair extent, Ben continued.
"And," he said with emphasis, to catch the attention of the guests, "…And also the part where she turns in a British spy."
What Ben was pointing out right at this very moment was a reference to the sad story of Mr. Haskall. The young man was Felicity's friend before Felicity found out that he was a spy for the British in detailing plans for her Grandfather's plantation, King's Creek, as well as the other neighboring Patriot plantations, to be raided by British troops. Felicity didn't seem to be that proud of turning someone over to those on her side that she considered a friend before.
"There are some things I've done that I may not have been proud of, but which had to be done," said Felicity.
"Well said, Miss Merriman," complimented Walter with light gusto. That could explain on occasion why General Washington commissioned us to perform various tasks considered…distasteful…by civilized folk."
Lady Duffman nearly went into spasms. "Pray, like what?" she asked, shocked.
"Like…well…, filching from various towns, treasuries, and churches…" Ben stopped himself, and everyone could almost tell that Ben was hesitant to give specific details. But even with the lack of detail, what Ben was said about his summarization of the Fifth Regiment's filching activities made cause for alarm. Mrs. Merriman may have been alarmed as well, but not as much, since she heard Ben's stories about his adventures in the Fifth Regiment during his recuperation back home.
"Would it not be safe to spare any more specific details?" asked Lady Duffman.
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Duffman," said Ben as courteously as he could without sounding unfriendly to her in the manner of avoiding an excessively prying individual. "Those things that me and my friends did…have to be kept to our own selves, lest we run the risk of having ourselves and our loved ones become targets of vengeance by some vengeful folk fell victim to our seemingly dishonorable activities."
"But we didn't kill nobody," added Walter.
"Of course not," agreed Ben.
"Thank God," said Mrs. Cole, still in slight shock.
"I know Ben to be an honorable lad," said Mrs. Merriman in her attempt to assure the rest of the ladies that Ben was indeed a fairly scrupulous young man, perhaps for her eldest daughter's sake. "I hope…"
"Don't worry yourself over lady," said Walter. "There is still honor amongst thieves. Like us."
"Walter, don't give us away," hissed Ben a tad anxiously.
"We did it for the cause," Walter said indignantly to his friend.
"But at what cost, pray, Mr. Wheaton?" asked Mrs. Cole, still alarmed. Being on the Loyalist side, and a Loyalist herself, Mrs. Cole seemed to have every reason to be alarmed, given that many of her friends, neighbors, and acquaintances on the side of the Tories fell victim to the Patriots' misdeeds and atrocities.
Walter took another bite at his buttermilk biscuit and after wolfing the bite down, resumed speaking.
"Money, of course," said he. "We needed funds to fuel Washington's army. Which could be why General Washington picked us." He shot glances across the guests. "He wants us to do his own dirty and loathsome work. Work that is loathsome in the eyes of the civilized."
"My husband said that if that were the case, 'twould put General Washington in a very bad light." Mrs. Merriman had that impression ever since she heard Ben's stories of his days in the Fifth Regiment.
"Especially given that Walter is upheld by many of us Colonists on both political sides as a respectable man," added Ben.
"You said it, mate," said Walter.
Lady Duffman, out of courtesy, decided that talk of politics would make Mrs. Cole anxious, given that the side of the Tories was lost when the Colonists won the war. It seemed that for Mrs. Cole, any talk of politics that involved past recriminations over political viewpoints would sow unrest at her heart, leaving little moment for which to set her heart at peace.
"I propose we move on to another…topic suitable for most table conversations," said she.
"Aye? Like what?" challenged Walter.
"Anything that does not involve…"
"…Anything violent, despicable, or debauched in nature?" put in Ben.
"Mr. Davidson, you're being most rude," warned Lady Duffman, taking notice of Ben's hurried interrupting.
"Sorry, you're ladyship," said Ben, shrugging his shoulders. To himself, he said, "Guess I can't help it."
Lady Duffman just continued. "I suggest that we talk about…hmm…" It seemed that she had some difficulty coming up with some suitable topic for discussion.
Then Walter had the answer, popped into his head. "Marthas," he finished for her.
Lady Duffman darted back at Walter. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Wheaton?" she asked quickly.
Walter launched his explanation. "I seemed to hit upon a term that I used to describe camp followers in Washington's army and various housewives who sheltered us on occasions." He made a pause, hoping for some mood of anticipation on the part of the guests. "I call them…Marthas."
Though it should not have been to alarming for her, Mrs. Merriman could not help her heart jumping. Could they also be referring to her, too, given that her first name was Martha?"
"I seem to recall at one point we were sheltered," Walter continued, "That a soulful mother of three children overworked herself…nearly to death, heaven help her busy body…to give Ben, Brady, and me warmth and necessities…such as goodly warm food. The same she did to her children as well. She had a disposition to be thorough in almost everything, and while that may seem to be a bit…too far for anyone not to truly appreciate her, she really was devoted to us…and her children ever since the day we stopped by.
Felicity beamed at Walter in a token of appreciation. "That was really sweet to say, Walter," she said with a friendly, pixie-faced grin.
Elizabeth flashed her sweet smile in return. "I agree with Lissie," she concurred. "That was really, really sweet to say."
Walter nodded, grinning with his mouth closed. "Anyway, if it wasn't for Marthas, the whole world would be drab, impersonal, inhospitable, and a ghastly mess," he declared.
Mrs. Merriman made a suppressive chuckle to herself in response to the comment, thinking that she might have some sort of involvement in the matter at hand.
"I think I'm detecting some funny business across this room," observed Walter, upon taking notice of Mrs. Merriman's suppressed laughter.
"Well," began Mrs. Merriman with a soft laugh. "'Tis just that…um…it so happens that my first name is Martha."
"Really?" asked Walter, his inflection down. "Because I was referring to the biblical Martha. The one that came to serve Our Lord at table."
"And methinks, I'm almost just like her," Mrs. Merriman admitted.
"There's nothing terribly wrong about that," said Ben rather sympathetically on behalf of Mrs. Merriman and the other possible Marthas existing in all the Thirteen Colonies. "Is there?"
"'Course not," said Lady Duffman huffily and determinedly. "I believe Master Wheaton is right."
Walter felt humorously flattered, and his commentaries became wittier. "Then you, my lady, should dub me as 'Witty Walter Wheaton'," said mischievously and wittily.
Genial laughter resounded among the guests, on account of this seemingly clever triple-W alliteration.
But the mood was cut a little when in a few seconds three more guests emerged into the parlor room. It was Mr. and Mrs. Wythe and their nineteen-year-old daughter Fanny and grandson Joseph. Brown-haired, hazel-eyed Fanny stepped in quietly and bashfully into the parlor room.
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed Lady Duffman. "Who have we got here that does us the honor of making this breakfast time all the more merrier?"
"'Tis Fanny, your Ladyship," Mrs. Wythe answered calmly in her slight British accent. "And her son."
"Mrs. Brady, you say?" asked Ben, alerted.
"Aye."
Matthew Brady had a young wife named Frances, affectionately called Fanny. A year back months prior to the Siege of Yorktown, Brady married her while she was eighteen. Fanny found it so awful to have her husband away, especially during the days when she was with child. The last time she saw him was when he said goodbye to her, on the day the battle commenced. When word came through that he died on an away mission, she sobbed pretty wildly.
Along with Fanny was a baby son named Joseph, called Joey for short. Ben, Walter, Felicity, Elizabeth, Mrs. Merriman, Mrs. Cole, and Lady Duffman witnessed the infant in Fanny's cradling arms. Fanny was under the supervision of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wythe. Unfortunately, Matthew Brady was killed during the Siege of Yorktown, at the time of the storming of a building in Redoubt Two, when he and his comrades were on an infiltration mission. He was only twenty at that time.
Memories surged into Ben's head about Matthew Brady's last moments as he gazed at baby Joey.
"I dare say, he looks just like his father," he croaked with a sniffle, as he knelt squat in order to take a look at the baby boy at eye-level view.
As Ben greeted little Joey, he saw something in the baby boy that resembles the appearance of one of his wartime comrades. Flashback memories of his comrade surfaced in the back of his mentally anguished mind.
Siege of Yorktown
October, 1781 A.D…
A battle of epic proportions was taking place on a town near the James River. Artillery from the Continental Army kept up the suppressing bombardment of the town. French vessels under the command of Fleet Admiral Charles de Grasse also kept up the bombardment in the attempt of assisting the American forces, thus thinning the defensive forces of the British army. Washington's army was slowly inching its way through enemy lines while the British dug deep trench-wise into their fortifications and fired back.
Ben, Walter, and Brady were on an infiltration mission, as they sneaked their way past the boundaries of enemy lines. They were tasked with storming into a certain officer's post to retrieve intelligence that would be useful to Washington's commanding officers in order to be more effective in punching their way through "those arrogant Brits".
Except for Ben and Walter, Brady was the only member in the three-man squad to ever have a sword sheathed on his back like a stereotypical Japanese ninja. The only thing different about the sword was that it was formed in the manner of straight-wise Japanese sword, with its pointed end shaped in the form a bowie knife, with one curve at the end and a straight end. Coming across a hut that accordingly was the place where the officer was stationed, Walter and Brady stationed themselves at opposite ends of the doorway, their firearms loaded and ready to shoot at a moment's notice. The entranceway had its door designed in a manner in which it was opened from the inside, so a door breach involving the use of a sudden barge-in was attainable. At Ben's silent count to three, a successful door was initiated; whereupon Sergeant Ben as squad leader was the first to forcefully push his way through, with Walter and Brady following. As Ben took a step forward into the hut, the others positioned themselves alongside Ben at opposite sides, their muskets pointed and ready to fire at a moment's notice, lest some redcoat had the guts to lay a clever ambush against them.
"Clear," said Ben.
"Clear," informed Walter.
"All clear," said Brady. "Anything unusual?"
Ben checked the surroundings of the hut. On a crude wooden desk opposite the entranceway was a single candle on a wooden candlestick, as well as a yellowed, worn-out paper with some crude and smudged handwriting, most likely written by a British officer before he fled the scene.
Ben eyed the document carefully, and so did Brady. "Looks like a love letter, doesn't it," observed Brady.
Suddenly Ben became suspicious. A love letter? he asked himself. This just isn't right. I expected to find details of enemy plans and what we have is…this? But then it might have entered his mind that the squad's intel was misleading, as could be intended by the British, if not the Americans.
"This is surely not what we came for," Ben muttered under his breath. He sniffed around the room in a suspicious manner. "Could be a trap." Then he loudly gave the order for his squad to extricate out of the room.
"Everyone, let's get the hell outta here before more surprises…"
Suddenly a British infantryman, barging out a closet, surprised the three young men. He took a deep, brutal, plunging stab at Brady with a bayonet attached to his Land Pattern musket. The soldier was about to stab Ben, but Ben viscerally deflected the bayonet thrust by seize-holding the barrel's end with his right hand in the nick of time, deflecting the barrel's end to his left side, and putting more force into his deflection with his left hand. Walter intervened further by unsheathing Brady's sword from his back and lopping off the redcoat's head. The sight was so grotesque for Ben to witness, and Walter felt that way, too; but there was no time to make comments over such savagery, as their minds reeled over such a very intimidating near-death experience.
Ben soon took notices of Brady's critical injury, and Ben's response upon seeing him in such a state was a mixture of shock and alarm. "Brady, what the hell just happened?" he asked anxiously.
Brady struggled to speak, for pain kept shooting up his body every time he took a breath. "S-s-stabbed…is what," he answered simply.
Ben ripped open Brady's bloodied uniform coat and shirt. Blood leaked onto Brady's clothes. Any rookie doctor could tell for sure that this surely was serious bleeding Brady was suffering right now. And his wound was situated near the right upper side of his body, where his lungs were.
"My God," said Walter, leaning over, almost dazed by the sight of Brady. "This is serious bleeding."
Brady was shaking and shivering; struggling in drawing each ounce of breath as he spoke while expelling every breath itself. "Ben…" he uttered. "I don't…I don't think I'll-I'll live…live long…to…"
"Brady," said Ben quickly as he struggled in putting pressure over Brady's wound. "Hey, Brady…Brady, you can't die. Not now. You know why? Because you're so very…very pretty. You are just to damn pretty for God to let you die."
But Brady kept succumbing to his wounds. He was growing pale.
"Brady? Brady?" Ben called to him, in his effort to get Brady's attention lest Brady should pass out. Then he exerted his frustration as he shook his comrade to keep him awake. "BRADY, LISTEN TO ME, GODDAMMIT!"
Brady looked at Ben weakly, his vision and his focus blurred.
"You've got a wife…and baby son, Brady," Ben said to him forcefully, in the assumption that a mention of his family back home in Williamsburg would give impetus to Brady in his struggle to keep himself alive, even for a little while longer. "They're not going to be too happy if you die on them."
As Ben struggled to keep his comrade alive, Walter was peering through his telescope while acting as lookout. French ships were just about close to getting in firing range of the redoubt, and the hut.
"Ben, for God's sakes, come on!" cried Walter. "Those Frogs are going to blow this redoubt to kingdom come within the next minute! We've got to get our arses out of here!"
Walter was right. At a distance of several hundred yards, the French ships would not make a distinction between a British-controlled redoubt, and a British redoubt with small friendly forces. And all three boys knew it.
Ben struggled to hoist up the wounded Brady and tote him over his back as he and Walter escaped the hut. Cannon fire from the French vessels blast the hut, including its surroundings. The explosions nearly knocked Ben and Walter off their feet as each of the struggle to keep balance over the uneven, parched ground, with Ben's struggle being all the more difficult on account of having to carry Brady to safety.
"Give me some goddamn cover fire!" shouted Ben.
"Right!" Walter responded.
Being a proficient shot, and one who could fire three shouts in a minute, Walter deterred as few redcoats as he could before they could get to Ben and Brady, even to the point of using his bayonet against them. Both Ben and Walter made their run out of the redoubt as Walter shot at a handful of redcoats with a handful of flintlock weapons. They evaded the shooting redcoats as best as they could. Seconds later, artillery fire from the French frigates launched another calculated barrage against the redoubt.
The young men had managed to get to a safe distance, under cover in one of the wide, deserted British trenches in the midst of the battle.
"Brady, Brady?" Ben called to his comrade again, as he struggled to revive him, even keep him awake. "Come on, Brady. You're not dying on me right now. Not this very minute."
"Ben," said Walter. "I don't think he can make it." He tried to be as sympathetic as he could, despite his exhaustion. "I'm afraid…he's a hopeless case."
"Hopeless to you," retorted Ben in a bitter manner, as she shot back a bitter look toward his friend. He faced back to Brady. Brady struggled to speak, despite his severe wounds. He could only speak very weakly, as he struggled against the spasms of struggled breathing and sheer weakness due to severe blood loss.
"You're…you're very lucky…Ben," he said in an exhaustive and weak manner. "You…you get to enjoy…the very freedom…that we colonists…are…are fighting for…right now…and…and very close…to winning."
"Every man's got to have his reward for doing good deeds, Brady," Ben said to his dying comrade, as he fought back tears. "What'll yours be?"
"H-h-heaven," Brady answered with a weak strain in his voice.
"Well, it seems you're going to get it a mite sooner," said Ben, forcing a manly smile. For Ben, he hoped such a reward for his devoted comrade would be too good to be true; especially that Brady was now near death's door.
"I…I hope…so," said Brady. "That…that be good…wouldn't…it?"
Ben nodded silently. Brady coughed up as blood trickled down his parched mouth. Brady coughs up. Blood trickles down Brady's parched mouth. His eyes started to have an ominously glassy appearance as if every part of his body was ready to break down and die, which it was.
From the knoll, Walter could spot the stars and stripes waving on a flag-bearer's staff as Washington's army made its push into the territory. The banner with thirteen red and white stripes, a navy-blue rectangle bedecked with thirteen stars arranged in a circle. It was tattered due to the wear and tear of battle, but it was waving proudly, triumphantly, against its foes.
"Ben, look! Our…our flag!" Walter exclaimed ecstatically.
Ben turned his head. Triumph, he thought to himself. And at such a great cost… He hoped that the sight of their beloved flag would cheer Brady up.
"You see, Brady?" asked Ben. "That's our flag. The flag that's fluttering yonder?" He faced Brady again. "You know what that means, don't you. Means we're close to winning here."
Brady gave a hopeless nod. But in his mind there was relief; relief that what he fought for and was dying for right now was not fought in vain. Ben also experienced that kind of relief when he knew that if Brady was going to die, he would not die in vain.
But Brady had one more thing to say to his friend – about his sweetheart.
"Tell Fanny I love her, Ben," said Brady. It was his last request to the friend and superior officer he always served at his side. "Don't you ever forget, or I'll…" He breathed a struggled breath before racking up a great couth. "…Just tell Fanny that…" He cut off. He could not continue.
Brady passed away with his eyes open and his mouth agape. Sadly, Walter shuts Brady's eyes out of respect for the heroic man. Ben got carried away with his grief over the loss of his comrade as he started sobbing his body after Brady breathed his last and died, holding him close like a brother.
Ben kept feasting his eyes at baby Joey. Ben had lost his father thirty years ago during the Roanoke skirmish back in 1762. Ben was only four years old at that time. But Joey lost his father at a much of a younger age than Ben did. At least Ben got to know his father for a time. Joey never did have the opportunity to get to know his father fully.
Ben could remember the commanding officer of the Fifth Regiment, Capt. Michael Howell, making mention of the fact that it was he who told Ben's mother about the death of his father when he came over to the Merrimans' to recruit Ben into the Regiment.
"Lissie, he is so adorable," Elizabeth murmured dearly, her avid blue eyes filled with fascination for the infant child.
"Aye, he is," agreed Felicity in the same manner, as she took her own gaze at the infant boy, too. "Aren't you," she said tenderly.
Baby Joey made cooing sounds in response.
"All right," said Mrs. Wythe. "I say we let poor Fanny take her seat."
"I agree," said Lady Duffman. "The settee is over there, next to the back window."
Fanny got seated comfortably on the settee, just as Lady Duffman said she would.
After nearly a minute, Joey began to cry, for he was hungry. And Fanny nursed him. She was first taught by her parents on that matter, and later on, she got the knack for it. The sight of baby Joey nursing on his mother's left breast made Felicity feel some sort of motherly longing. Felicity swore to herself that if she had her own child she would do exactly what Fanny was doing right now to Joey.
Mr. Wythe, wanting to present a more manly aspect of his entire surroundings, presented both Ben and Walter with Brady's strange katana-like sword. Ben took the sword and gives it to Walter when he asked for it.
"What is with this strange-looking sword you have, Master Wheaton?" Lady Duffman asked curiously to Walter.
"Tis a sword, madam," said Walter simply. "And a very strange one at that." Walter, for some humorous reason, had some tendencies with stating the obvious.
Walter wielded Brady's katana-like sword like a make-believe martial arts expert. He smashed one of Lady Duffman's ornate China potteries, astonishing Lady Duffman and the rest of her guests.
Needless to say, the astonishment was greater on the part of Lady Duffman because one of her chinaware had just fallen victim to Walter's martial-arts style sword strike.
