Some Desperate Glory—Chapter 21

They rode into Pembroke in the middle of the afternoon, and James eyed the familiar town. It was one of those sleepy little villages that dotted South Carolina. The people who lived there were no better and no worse than any others James knew. Colonel Tavington was convinced it was a hub of rebellion. It was true that Reverend Oliver led the congregation in town, and it was also true that Oliver had abandoned his flock to aid and abet Benjamin Martin. Dan Scott, who also rode and fought with Martin, was from Pembroke. It was true as well that Peter Howard had never done a damn thing to hide how he felt about King George and his government, so it was no great stretch to imagine he was a likely source of support for Martin and his militia, especially since the man was in no condition to take up arms himself.

James had heard the man's daughter spout treasonous nonsense enough times to figure she, too, held her father's views, and given her infatuation with Gabriel Martin, she likely provided any support a mere woman could. He didn't envy Gabriel, if he was foolish enough to marry the woman, since he was certain Anne Howard was one of those females who would rule a man's life with that often sharp tongue of hers. Then again, he'd never really noticed much gumption in the eldest Martin son—if he discredited joining the rebellion over his father's wishes—so perhaps the boy needed someone to provide him with direction.

Howard's wife, on the other hand, barely ever said anything, so it was difficult to measure any culpability she might have. James suspected she simply went along with her husband, so he wondered how she had managed to raise the forward shrew who was her daughter.

As the infantry soldiers attached to the Dragoons began knocking on doors and gathering the town's citizens, James considered that this might well be one of those places and one of those times where wives and children might be actual combatants rather than simply bystanders.

He and Jorie sat their horses, Tavington having given the order for the town to be burned once he had spoken with the villagers, and watched as the soldiers worked their way from house to house, herded the village's residents to the only building capable of providing space for them all.

Oliver's church was an excellent specimen, and James studied its white clapboards, the windows and their elegant fanlights. Pembroke had somehow been able to afford something more picturesque than many village churches, but James knew some of the area planters had likely subsidized it. While they might not always be the most diligently faithful of God's creatures, for many, their church tithes were a mere a pittance given their often immense wealth. James followed the steeple's spear as it pointed heavenward and wondered if any of the townspeople trickling into the building looked upward, considered their own state of grace. For that matter, James wondered if the parish had hired a new minister or if they relied on lay preachers or some itinerant clergyman to tend Pembroke's spiritual flock.

James considered that the Church of England might have chosen to punish Pemboke by not supplying a new preacher when Oliver joined the rebellion, though he would have thought the King's churchmen might want to do what they could to correct their wayward flock, bring them back into the fold. The Church had, after all, sent more than one minister whose mission was to attempt to bring South Carolinians into compliance.

Jorie's horse snorted, shook its head and stamped. James felt the same impatience. It was taking time for the men to move from house to house and search each one, steer its inhabitants toward the church. It also took time to round up those who chose to run, and James, watching a soldier practically drag a young woman he didn't recognize toward the church, hoped Tavington might simply take the men he sought and leave the others in peace—assuming any of the men they hunted happened to be in Pembroke at all.

Looking toward Howard's home and store, James realized he hadn't seen any of that family's members, so he wondered where the Howards were. It was possible, he supposed that someone had sent word to Peter Howard that the Dragoons were coming, and the man might have chosen to take his family to safety. If he were in the other man's shoes, it was what he would have done. James didn't consider protecting one's family cowardly, and there was no doubt that Howard was far from a coward given his prior service to the King and his vocal bravery in the rebel's cause. Perhaps that was why when he rode toward an approaching wagon, he was startled to recognize Howard, his wife, and daughter.

"Everyone's been requested to gather at the church," he told them.

He caught Anne's surprise and watched it shift to fear, and for a moment he thought of Beth. Beth, he knew, feared for herself. He suspected Anne feared for her father, though her own treason might, in Colonel Tavington's book, merit punishment as well. James wondered if she understood that and if that accounted for that glimpse of fear.

"Mr. Wilkins?" Howard asked, and James was disconcerted by the man's curious reaction. Just as Howard had never hidden his rebellious sentiments, James had never completely hidden his loyalty, had always answered honestly when asked directly, so why the man should appear surprised to see him in uniform, he couldn't imagine. Then again, James felt some measure of chagrin to be the one to confront him. After all, he had often done business with Howard, had mostly not held the man's politics against him, nor, he thought, had Howard held his own against him.

James controlled his horse, eyed the man and wondered if he knew something James did not. Perhaps that was why he gave a fuller explanation to him and his family than most of the other townspeople had been given: "Colonel Tavington wishes to address the whole village."

To his relief, the Howards drove on, entered the church peaceably, though he noticed Anne appeared willing to challenge the Dragoons, probably would have done so more vigorously had her mother not hissed at her to, most likely, be quiet. James cocked his head, realized there was something different about the girl, and then it dawned on him she had begun wearing the style of lace cap mostly reserved for married women. His heart sank, and while he didn't particularly like the girl, he hoped she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut because he was certain that if she had married, her husband was Gabriel Martin. After all, the girl had never shown a bit of interest in anyone else.

He guided his horse back to Jorie, who raised her brows. He shrugged. Given the headstrong women he dealt with on a daily basis when he was at home, he felt no compulsion to explain to yet one more headstrong woman, but for whatever reason, he suddenly missed Beth more than he would have thought possible. Perhaps it was envy that Gabriel Martin had managed to claim a bride while fighting a war, but James wished desperately he was home at Oak Point with Beth.

Tavington nodded, gestured for them to follow, and they turned their horses and rode with him toward the church. The soldiers had kept the doors shut, opened them only to allow more townspeople inside, and the Dragoons lined up short of the church's entrance and allowed the Colonel to ride on alone. James's attention was caught by the infantrymen attached to them who had begun moving lengths of board and other wood toward the windows. He frowned, puzzled over what they intended. Then he realized the shutters to the church windows locked from inside the building, and the lengths of wood were to hold them shut. Tavington must be planning to lock the villagers inside when he had the information he wanted, so the Dragoons could ride out without someone from Pembroke providing the militia any warning.

While James admitted his attendance to his own faith was intermittent at best, which contributed considerably to his mother's concern for the state of his immortal soul, he was still appalled when Tavington simply rode his horse up the steps and into the building.

Jorie's disgusted snort drew his attention, and he looked over to see her shake her head and grimace. "No way to treat a horse," she explained grimly. James noted it was softly enough said that her voice didn't carry beyond the two of them.

James silently agreed that only an idiot risked a horse on stairs, even the few steps leading into the church, particularly a cavalryman whose life depended on his mount. He gave an order to prepare the torches to fire the village buildings and then studied the church's open door. From where they waited, they couldn't hear what Tavington said, only the soft sounds of his voice. There were a couple of other voices, one of which sounded female. Then Tavington rode out of the church. Someone inside, a man, James realized though he didn't recognize the voice, called something out, and Tavington sounded ghoulishly happy when he responded, "And indeed you may!" He then dropped his voice and added, "That's between you and God."

The soldiers closed the doors and then chained them.

Nudging his horse forward, James acknowledged silently that he didn't like Tavington's methods, and while making refugees of Pembroke's villagers would cost each resident personally, at least they would be more fortunate than many who had supported the Crown had been at the hands of the rebels. When he reached the Colonel, he reported, "Ready to fire the town on your orders, Sir."

Tavington's stare was glacial. "The town? Burn the church."

For a moment, a very brief moment, James was certain he had misheard his commanding officer. They had been told they would burn the town, and James was fine with that given what he knew of the village's sentiments. Burning the church meant callously killing people, many of whom he had known his entire life, and many of whom were good people whose sins were no greater than the average man's.

The cold stare Tavington leveled on him made plain he had not misheard nor misunderstood.

With a kind of desperation, James considered and rejected a number of arguments for adhering to the original plan. He could not give the order, he knew, and he didn't think he could consign his neighbors—rebel or not—to such a death. Unless Tavington had irrefutable evidence that each of Pembroke's citizens had committed treason, this was nothing more than murder.

That thought spurred him to blurt, "There's no honor in this."

If he'd thought that would sway the man before him, he was obviously mistaken. As he met Tavington's cold stare, he wildly considered how to get out of this. He would not bring dishonor on his family, but it wasn't hard to read the other man's contempt, contempt James was suddenly certain was directed toward himself rather than the villagers he wanted James to roast. He realized then that Tavington intended to test his loyalty, and James wasn't at all certain he could deliberately do as ordered so that he could reassure the other man of his commitment to his King.

Controlling his own horse, Tavington asked, "Didn't you say all those who stand against England deserve to die a traitor's death?" The man's gaze sharpened. "Burn the church, Captain."

No matter where he looked, James saw similar distrust in the faces of his fellow Dragoons. Most of them had come from other colonies, many from the North, and he knew they had contempt for the constantly revolving door of some South Carolinian planters. He knew then they suspected he might be susceptible to the same changing loyalties.

It was do or die, he realized, his neighbors or himself.

He had never expected to find himself in this position, and he had never expected to so bitterly regret the words he had said to Tavington when they first met, but he now did. His was a losing proposition regardless of what action he chose. If he refused, Tavington could have him shot for having refused a direct order. If he obeyed, he would have to live with the knowledge that he had been the instrument of death for many people who likely did not deserve it. He also knew that if he did this, he would never be able to return to Oak Point, even if England ultimately prevailed, because his remaining neighbors would never forget this and never forgive him.

James looked at the other men, but what he sought in their faces he wasn't certain. He saw only suspicion and doubt, so, in the end, he chose what he knew was the coward's way. He turned to one of the infantrymen who held torches and ordered, "Give me the torch."

"Sir," the man answered and handed it to him, and James wondered, now that it was in his hand, whether or not he could find the will to actually set the flame to the church. He looked once more at Tavington, saw the contemptuous curl of lip. He looked back at the church, decided that if he could throw it hard enough to land it on the roof over the entryway porch, the wooden roof shakes would most likely catch quickly, which made it the best vantage point to do the job and to get it over with quickly. He fought back the urge to be sick, and cocked his arm.

Before he could bring his arm forward and let the torch sail toward the church, someone's hand slapped over his wrist and another hand wrenched the torch from him.

"Enough," Jorie said, though James heard the carefully controlled fury in her voice. "He proved willing," she added, and James noticed she stared stonily at their Colonel as she bit it out, "so I think there can be no more doubt that he's loyal."

Tavington's head tilted, and he turned his icy gaze on her. "He has not obeyed the order yet."

James reached for the torch, furious though not at all sure with whom—Jorie, Tavington, or himself. She moved it further from his grasp. "He planned to, so enough. If you want to burn the villagers alive, fire the building yourself."

The Colonel's jaw worked, clenched, and his glare should probably have incinerated Jorie on the spot. "Your insubordination is duly noted, Captain Ramsdell, but Captain Wilkins was given a direct order—one I expect to be followed." His gaze met James's, and in that moment James wondered what price Jorie would pay for stopping him.

Not that he wasn't glad she had, but he suspected he was going to have to gather his courage once more and execute the Colonel's order, and he wasn't sure he could do so a second time. Perhaps there was a God who watched out for men like him after all, who knew that he had his sins, but James was mostly well-meaning, mostly tried to always do what was right, mostly tried to live an honorable life and to uphold the rules of a gentleman, and perhaps God appreciated that because Tavington blew an angry breath through his nose, sniffed, and turned and gave the order to secure the villagers.

The men slammed the church shutters closed and made sure the villagers within would not be able to easily free themselves. Tavington then gave orders, split the troops, sent them in different raiding parties with orders to meet up again in a couple of days. Jorie and James and their mounted troops would be accompanied by most of the infantrymen while Tavington and Bordon would take part of the Dragoons and head for the old Spanish mission at Black Swamp.

James wasn't sorry to be sent with Jorie, to not have to follow Tavington. They led the way from Pembroke, and James was preoccupied with wondering why Tavington had allowed Jorie to undermine his command as she had done. While he was glad she had done so, he was troubled by the methods of punishment Tavington could use to see that no one else would ever again thwart one of his orders. The Colonel could have her brought up on mutiny charges, could make an example of her by having her hanged or shot, and the breadth of other possible penalties for having protected James were serious enough to trouble him deeply. Even if the man only ordered her lashed, it would expose her gender, and she would be relieved of her command and expelled from the Dragoons.

There was no question James owed her a tremendous debt for what she had just done, but she had risked all to keep him from doing something he hadn't wanted to do but had felt compelled to do.

He simply hoped Tavington and Bordon didn't circle back and burn the church and its prisoners anyway.

Once they were a few miles from Pembroke, James turned to watch Jorie, who still looked angry.

She gave him a look that was only marginally less cold than Tavington's had been. "My sister would never forgive either of us," she bit out.

It was true, he knew. Beth would not condone murder, and that's what it would have been.

"He will retaliate," James pointed out. After all, Tavington was one of the most vindictive men it had ever been his misfortune to have met.

"Most likely," she acknowledged, "but my background provides me a measure of protection, and since you insist you will remain here after the war, it is best you are able to do so with a clear conscience."

She left unsaid, And with clean hands, though James ruefully wondered if instead he would be thought a coward, wondered, too, if he would be plagued by those who had been in that church. That assumed they ever learned what Tavington had ordered and that he had nearly complied.

Deciding that in this instance he could comfortably live with being thought a coward, James knew it was preferable to being thought the kind of man who could exterminate an entire village. His father had always told him a man's honor was the one thing no man could afford to lose. James had been raised with a code of honor he had only once broken—with Beth. As they rode, he considered another lesson of his youth, one that held it became easier to break God's commandments once a man had taken the first step along that road. By that argument, his indiscretion—no, call it what it was—his sin with Beth had made it easier for him to nearly act on Tavington's order and break another of God's laws.

He considered that, decided that his near-compliance might have more to do with fear—both the fear of being viewed a coward and the fear of being viewed a traitor. Neither were accusations an honorable man generally tolerated among his class.

James turned his thoughts to the expectations with which his society raised men and the sheer stupidity that came from blind acceptance of things like duty. He wondered at the kind of courage it took to say no, courage he'd found lacking in himself when he had been stared down by his commander, and granted that he had to accept he was, indeed, a coward. It also explained his inaction where Beth's safety was concerned, and he turned his thoughts to ways he might be able to redress that particular failure of character.

Not long after, he looked behind, realized he saw smoke, and reigned Ares in. He was about to turn back, but Jorie's voice stopped him. "Given the amount of smoke and the distance we've already come, James, there is nothing that can be done."

There was no question what she said was true, but James still felt a flare of anger and the urge to see for himself. Tavington must have returned—or sent someone more amenable than James and Jorie to set fire to the church and end Pembroke's sedition. It was possible, he supposed, that it was the town that burned rather than the church, but he felt certain that the residents of Pembroke had suffered the very fate his Colonel had determined they would.

It gave him much to think about as they rode and eventually made a cold camp since they knew there were rebel militia in the area. In particular, it made him consider what retaliation the rebels might make in order to exact revenge. James was certain Martin and his men would strike back, and he was suddenly glad his mother, Katy, and Beth were still safely in Charles Town, which was still in English hands.

For once, Jorie didn't attempt to change his mood. In fact, she said little, and James wondered if she worried what Tavington would do to her for thwarting him. He wondered if he should try to put her at ease as she had previously done for him, but other than thanking her for stopping him, he couldn't find the words, and he was uncomfortable thanking her for saving him from a crime for which he would not be able to forgive himself, so he said nothing.

She stared moodily into the darkness. James, the senior officer among the Dragoons present, arranged the watch, issued orders to insure they didn't drop their guards, and hoped the rebels decided to chase Tavington rather than attack them.

By morning, Jorie was more herself, and James was a bit more himself. During the night he had accepted the deed was done and there was no changing it, cleared his conscience, resolved that the next time he was ordered to commit an atrocity he would stand his ground. He also decided that when his time with the Dragoons was up, he would go home, return to Oak Point and mind his own business by taking a neutral stance. He still believed South Carolina was best served through loyalty to the King, but he was unwilling to set aside a lifetime of principles in order to continue serving that King's interests by obeying irrational orders from Colonel Tavington, especially since he had concluded during the long night that such orders didn't serve the King's interests in the least.

-X-

When Tavington and what remained of his troop joined them at the English camp, it was easy to see the man had been wounded, and James wondered who had attacked them and where, whether they should be concerned Tavington and the Dragoons with him had been pursued after leaving Pembroke. One of the other Dragoons who arrived with their Colonel told them that Bordon and the others had been killed. James noted God had apparently brought the rebel's fury down on the man who had intended to kill them. Jorie, in what James attributed to rash anger, decided to beard the Colonel in his den. She stalked to the man's tent, but she returned white-faced. James asked her what she had learned.

"They're dead."

Though for a moment he thought she meant the missing Dragoons, James grimly nodded since they had known that before she confronted Tavington, but when he studied her pallor and the hint of nausea on her features, he understood she meant the people of Pembroke. "He followed through on his order—or chose another of his men to do so."

Jorie breathed deeply, let the breath sigh out. "He didn't burn the church, and he claims he didn't send anyone else to do so." Troubled grey eyes met his. "Gabriel Martin and several of the rebel militia, including the minister of Pembroke's church, hunted them down. One of the rebels claimed Will Cameron told them you had followed Tavington's order, set fire to the church."

James nearly scoffed. In order for Will to know about that order, either someone was a spy in their own ranks, one of Pembroke's citizens had escaped the church and told Will a story that had become garbled, someone they had missed when herding the villagers into the church had overheard and lied, or Will had been there and overheard the order and chose to blame James when the church was burned with the people of Pembroke inside.

He shied from the other possibility because, despite all that happened between him and his childhood friend, he didn't want to believe it was true: that Will had set fire to the church and now blamed James out of some petty revenge.

"The Colonel says the church was burned with the people of Pembroke inside. We didn't do it, and Tavington says none of the men he took with him did it." She eyed James. Those gray eyes of hers held anger as well as concern. "Is Will capable of this?"

If she had asked him the year before, he would have told her emphatically no. Now, though, given what he'd seen the Camerons do since then, he had to admit he might have. He told Jorie as much, though he confessed he had no idea why Will would do so, would so risk being caught in a lie or having his guilt brought to light. He considered, then he added, "The people in that church were on his side of this, so I can't imagine why he would choose to kill allies they may well need." After all, James had finally realized Howard likely provided supplies through his store to Martin and his men, something Jorie acknowledged Tavington had learned from those they had locked inside the church.

Another thought occurred to him, but he quickly dismissed it since Will could have found easier ways to destroy James's reputation without resorting to murder. He told Jorie as much.

"If he exposes my sister's infidelity, though," she mused, "he runs the risk of exposing his own secret." She shook her head. "Of the two, you're more likely to come out of that disclosure with your reputation mostly intact. From what I've been told, Will would be ostracized—if not actually executed."

"If he can convince people this is true," James said, horror growing with each breath that anyone who knew him might believe him capable of such an inhumane act, "then you might as well have let me throw that torch." Panic welled, but he fought it down. It would ruin him, ruin his family, and ruin any chance that Katy would find a husband, because not even a renegade Henderson would offer for her if her brother had committed murder on the scale of what had been done at Pembroke.

"Many witnesses know you did not do this, James," she reminded him.

"Many English soldiers," he reminded her, "all of whom serve under a man—as do I—who is quite rightly labelled The Butcher." He knew full well he would be damned by association, and for the first time the full consequences of his loyalty came home to him. It wouldn't have mattered whether they burned the church or not. Nothing they did mattered beyond the fact that Tavington encouraged savagery in his troops, let them reap whatever vengeance they chose. What would matter was not that James did not participate in their dishonorable acts but that he had sometimes been present, had been a member of the unit responsible—and had not stopped it.

The tired, slightly bitter response Jorie offered, James wrote off as a joke, though he didn't find it in the least amusing: "All the more reason for you to take Anna home to the Vallée du Falcon, let her divorce Will there, and marry her, raise little Wilkinses."

She walked away from him with that, and James stared stonily after her.

-X-

Any hope he had that Will's story—and he wasn't completely certain it was Will's story—would die or be discredited was soon gone. When he saw his former neighbors, he at first assumed it was the uniform of the Dragoons they reacted to, but it soon became apparent that he was the one responsible for their anger and revulsion. He had strangely drawn the ire usually reserved solely for his Colonel.

Part of him had hoped it was simply a case of misdirected anger, but when he was spat upon and called murderer by a woman who had been his mother's friend, he accepted that however it had happened, James was seen as a traitor to his people. Politics didn't even seem to enter into the enmity with which he was greeted, rather it was the sin of having killed his neighbors, a sin, moreover, that he had not committed.

James soon quit trying to explain, stopped defending himself when it was obvious no one listened. He bitterly reflected that a lifetime of honorable behavior had been wiped out by a single act of which he was not guilty. They would simply have to win the war, pray that would help settle the matter, and thus far the English were winning in South Carolina, so he held out hope they would prevail and could clear up the misunderstanding. When he said as much to Jorie, she had given him a look that clearly questioned his mental faculties. He was taken aback, but she looked worn, a little frazzled, and he blurted, "Are you alright?"

She sighed, shook her head and walked away. James watched her go, wondered what troubled her. As he stared thoughtfully at her, she turned, came back, and asked, "Have you heard anything from Anna?"

Startled, he told her, "No."

For that matter, he hadn't heard from his mother or Katy, but they were in the back country and constantly moving, so it wasn't very surprising that any post they might have been sent hadn't caught up with them. For his part, he'd been somewhat relieved since it delayed having to explain any rumors they might have heard.

"Neither have I," she said heavily, "but I have heard from Arianna, who only wrote that she had had a troubling letter from our sister."

"Troubling how?" James demanded, instantly worried that something had happened to Beth.

Jorie shrugged. "That's all she wrote, that it was 'troubling.' With Arie, that could mean anything from Anna having confessed she had a cold to Anna having been harmed again by the Camerons."

The little princess had a flair for melodrama, it was true, but James suspected she wished to warn Jorie that something more serious was amiss with Beth. James's thoughts rushed through possibilities, each darker and more dire than the previous.

"If Anna's situation were dangerous," she said, "then she would have written me herself. I suspect she simply wrote something carelessly that caused Arianna to overreact, but I would like to know the truth of it."

As would James, who acknowledged as much.

"On the other hand," Jorie continued, "At least I may have a possible diversion from your own troubles."

He waited, but she seemed intent on making him ask, so he finally did.

"Have you heard of Major James Wemyss?"

The name was familiar, and James finally placed it. "He's with the 63rd Regiment."

"He's also been cutting quite a swathe along the Santee. Apparently, Colonel Tavington and others turned their traitor lists over to the man, who has been capturing, hanging, and burning out the rebel's families so Lord Cornwallis can finally cross into North Carolina." She gave James a sour look. "He, too, burned a church—though an empty one. With any luck, someone might attribute Pembroke to him."

Jorie turned to walk away, but then she turned back. "The General sent Wemyss after Francis Marion, but apparently he's having no more luck running the man to ground than we are with Benjamin Martin."

"Nor will he," James replied. He'd heard the stories of Marion's victories, and the man was drawing more and more recruits as the English committed more and more violent, repressive, and retaliatory actions against the rebels and against civilians. Like Martin, he knew every inch of his part of South Carolina, including where he could hide and where he could lie in ambush, and certainly no one could accuse the man of cowardice.

As Jorie left him, James reflected on the levels of cowardice men found themselves prone to, and he further reflected on some men's apparent need for revenge. He considered what he'd like to do to Will for the harm his old friend had done Beth, but he didn't find the same need for vengeance against the neighbors who had simply supported a different idea, a different notion of government. He further considered what would happen to his home, his family, if the tides of war began to roll the other way.

It wasn't long before he began to see the possible answer to that question.