Author's Note: Hello all! I'm back again with another chapter. Sorry it took me two weeks to update-I was trying to finish up NaNo and a pysch research paper at the same time. This installment skips ahead almost a year to the Philadelphia and Saratoga campaigns of 1777. Admittedly, if I detailed absolutely everything that happened between January of '77 to October of '77, this story would end up being about a 1,000 chapters long. (And the Philly campaign happens to be my favorite in America Revolution history!) So I jumped ahead a little, I hope you'll forgive me. As always, I would like to thank my wonderful readers and reviewers, LazyChestnut, Cid62, SpacePotato, and Mona Lisa23. And of course, I have to thank my wonderful beta, Scribe, for her continued dedication and help. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the Patriot. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein including General Julia Percy, Major Beatrice Covenly and Major Honora Smyth

Chapter Twenty-Six Philadelphia

October 1777-Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Tavington sighed. With nimble (though slightly trembling) fingers, he refolded the dispatch and stared at the broken red seal for a full minute. He was standing in the hallway of Benjamin Franklin's house-a most uncommon place to be quartered-and from within the dining room he heard a drunken peal of laughter.

"We must have a toast then. Come now, a toast," a male voice cried. "To Dame General Julia Percy, the hero of Princeton. Raise your glasses…Captain Andre, raise your glass. Once more-to Dame General Julia Percy, the hero of Princeton, now the scourge of Germantown-"

"Oh lah!" Covenly interrupted with a giggle.

"Truly, that is an exaggeration," Julia put in, sounding notably sober. "There was so much damn fog-the Rebels hadn't a chance."

"Over thirty prisoners taken!" the male voice continued sloppily, "let us…let us drink to that then."

"If you insist." That was Andre, miserable, sullen, pouting as usual.

There was a moment of silence. Tavington heard the unsteady clink to glasses, followed by a resounding "Huzzah!" and "God Save the King!".

He waited until the company had finished drinking before intruding, standing just outside the door where only Julia could see him and not the company of assembled officers.

They were holding a long overdue victory dinner, meant, of course, to celebrate the recent capture of Philadelphia two weeks before. After the closing of the campaign of 1776, Howe had turned his attention to the Rebel stronghold in Pennsylvania. With plans approved by Lord Germain, the commander-in-chief slowly began to advance on the city. In late August, he moved fifteen thousand troops to the northern end of the Chesapeake Bay, outflanking Washington's eleven thousand soldiers and driving him back to Brandywine in early September.

There had been some action along the Brandywine Creek itself on the 11th, in which Washington was defeated but still managed to keep his army together. Afterwards, some minor skirmishing had occurred including an encounter at Paoli, which the Rebels had promptly dubbed a "massacre". Nevertheless, Cornwallis marched into Philadelphia and took it on the 26th.

The Continental Congress had fled to Lancaster, or so Tavington had heard.

Unfortunately, the army had little time to settle in the city. Howe took nine thousand troops to nearby Germantown and left three thousand behind to defend his recent capture.

Julia herself had been unsure about the move, though understandably anxious to pursue Washington and drain the lifeblood from the ragtag Rebel forces. On the 4th of October, the Yankees marched on Germantown and would have entirely surprised them by approaching under the cover of a thick fog-had their progress not been so stunted by the same bad weather.

But it was the fortifying of the stone Clivedon-the country seat of Judge Chew-that finished the Rebels. While they fired futilely on the thick walls, companies under Colonel Musgrave inflicted heavy causalities from within the safety of the house.

The result of the skirmish was a complete victory for the British, even though several high-ranking officers, including General James Agnew, were felled on the field.

There was more to consider, however, besides clear cut victories. Tavington looked down at the dispatch once more and hesitated.

From out of the shadows, he saw Julia and her company-Major Covenly, Lord Francis Rawdon and several other distinguished officers, enjoying another toast.

He glanced at Andre, who was seated by Julia's right elbow, but nonetheless morose. Perhaps the man knew already, knew what dreadful tidings Tavington now held in his hands.

But the again, Andre had been naught but gloomy since Julia's return to Manhattan after the victory at Princeton. General Clinton's arrival had further soured his attitude and Tavington rightly sensed that the Captain was tiring of his role as Her Madamship's paramour.

Or perhaps he was simply jealous.

Tavington kept his musings to himself though, as he was content enough with his secure position and standing.

Now, however, he stepped forward cautiously, cleared his throat and stealthily beckoned to Julia.

She noticed him at once, waited a beat and then rose to excuse herself, wine glass still in hand.

"William, you ought to be with us," she said in an undertone as they stepped out into the hall together.

Tavington lightly touched her shoulder and pressed the dispatch into her empty hand. "Madam."

"What's this? Still reading my mail, I see." She was perfumed with wine and a bit shaky.

Tavington bit his lip, wondering if she was in any condition to take this news, this gut-wrenching, horrible news.

Julia moved two paces down the hall, just outside the warmth and laughter of the dining room. She set her wine glass down on a side table and ground one fingernail against her teeth.

"This is news from Burgoyne?" Her voice jumped an octave higher.

Tavington stood by her elbow. "Yes, madam." He clenched his hands, sweat forming a slick film over his palms.

Julia read in silence.

From within the dining room, there was much talk and the general clatter of heavy boots on a good, polished floor.

Lord Rawdon was saying something, offering another toast perhaps. Andre mumbled something in reply.

But Tavington ignored the guests and left them to Bacchus. Now, he had eyes only for Julia, who's shoulders had slumped, the letter in her hand limp.

"Jesus," she gasped.

Tavington shut his eyes for an instant, felt her pain. It plummeted down to his gut like a lump of ice and then melted, sending the frost through his veins.

"Burgoyne!" Julia whirled on him. "He has surrendered to the Rebels at Saratoga!"

Tavington stared at her blankly, utterly speechless.

Uneasy silence sat between them and Julia finally collapsed into a nearby chair.

"Good God," she said and that was all.

It seemed entirely surreal, the whole matter and Tavington leaned against the wall, his fingers dashing over the powder blue paint.

It had been decided some time ago, that General John Burgoyne would take his army and march down from the northernmost reaches of New York, meeting General Howe and his forces in the middle of the colony and effectively sundering the thirteen colonies. This separation of North and South, it was believed, would bring the rebellion to a swift, ungainly halt and Burgoyne himself had wagered that the war would be over by Christmas.

Tavington, however, had felt somewhat removed from Burgoyne's actions to the North and had only heard snatches of news from Julia at staff meetings. But from what he had deciphered, the plan to meet in the middle of New York had somehow gone awry. Howe did not join with Gentleman Johnny, leaving his comrade to fend for himself in the wilderness where the entire army was forced to blunder through thick forests, cutting trees down to make a path to accommodate both baggage and guns.

And now this had come. Burgoyne had seen action with the Rebels and was forced to surrender to them

But how? How could this have happened?

Julia had her hand to her chest now and she was breathing unevenly. "My God, what a blow," she panted and dropped the letter on the floor by her chair. "Howe must be furious and…Jesus."

Tavington wanted to say something, but found himself unable to do so. Ah, just when they had captured Philadelphia…just when Washington was licking his wounds from Germantown…

Andre came out into the hall, perhaps attracted by the notable silence. He was an awfully suspicious fellow, that Tavington knew. Ever since Trenton, Percy had come to rely on him more than her lover and she treated Tavington much more kindly, much more fairly than any of her staff officers.

Now Andre was frowning, his pert, handsome face darkened by distrust. He folded his arms across his chest and sidled past Tavington with an arrogant toss of his head.

"Julia, why have you left us?" he asked in a low, guttural whisper that was clearly only meant for Her Madamship's ears.

"Never mind," she replied with ruthless indifference. "Go back to the party, John."

"I'd rather-"

"Go back to the party."

He was being forced away once more and Tavington felt the wave of his frustration.

"I only meant to inquire after your well-being," he remarked bitterly, earning a raised eyebrow from Julia.

"And you would do well to go back to our guests," Julia bit back, "though what cheer your bring them, I cannot fathom."

Andre stiffened and limped away, wounded. But before returning to the dining room, he cast Tavington an offended sort of glare that was at once pathetic and intimidating. When he had gone, Julia retrieved the letter and folded it with surprisingly steady hands.

"Howe has blundered his last campaign here in the colonies," she said. "Lord Germain won't stand for this. I suppose I should pleased, in a way. He'll certainly be recalled to England-but ah, at what cost?"

"There is fortune in everything," Tavington offered.

Julia shook her head. "So I would hope. But you, William, you should return to the party. I must think now. Make an excuse for me. And don't tell them what has happened yet."

Julia retired upstairs, leaving Tavington with an awkward sense of loneliness in the hall. He at once thought to return to the gathering, but could not face the inherent gaiety of the party. It all seemed so desperately foolish to him now, a celebration that was certainly premature and not warranted.

He instead passed by the dining room door, peered inside and grappled with an excuse for Julia. She was a perpetual sufferer of medical maladies, he could certainly conjure one and ascribe it to her sudden disappearance. The guests would be too careless with wine to second guess him.

Tavington stepped casually into the room, hovering a cautious foot from the table which was covered with a fine white linen and dotted with the remains of a sumptuous meal and drink. Lord Rawdon was closest to him, an officer of the Irish peerage and well respected amongst his fellows and the command as a capable soldier.

Tavington had little to do with him, so far, though Julia had once spoken of him in passing, hoping to snag him for her staff. He realized she was attracted to the sort of glittering young men that exuded a sense of promise. In the sentiment, he found enough flattery to satisfy his own ego-for he was obviously counted as one such solider. But, on the other hand, the notion worked furiously to unsettle him, for each colleague might quickly turn his cheek and become a rival-like Andre.

Who was now missing from the company, he noticed.

The head seat was empty, along with the one directly to its right. Covenly still occupied the left, sitting across from another female officer, a Major Honora Smyth who had a distinct reputation for being as drunk and impetuous as she was beautiful. She now reclined in her chair, thick auburn curls spilling down her back, secured not by a simple black queue, but by a golden clasp that made her appear entirely opulent.

Tavington ignored her delicate peals of laughter, having learned not to meddle with any lady above the rank of sergeant. Benton had been enough of a trifle and she was only a camp surgeon.

The guests fell silent now at his sudden arrival and Tavington wondered if his very presence suggested disaster. Perhaps his face had paled in the passing minutes, hinting at the trouble that had ensnared General Burgoyne and his troops.

But he managed a smooth smile, nonetheless, snatching up a nearly full wine glass and draining the half of it.

"General Percy has retired for the night. She sent me to bid you good evening. Something about a headache, I believe."

As he had predicted, the excuse was accepted and he removed himself to the outer hall, where autumnal breezes had begun to seep under the doors and through the walls of the otherwise well-appointed house.

He took a moment to gaze up the stairs and into the darkness, where Julia stewed-or perhaps meditated over what course might be best. Of late, she had become less insolent towards Howe, instead falling back upon Clinton's support.

Tavington once more suspected that the two were conspiring, though whatever plot they worked they worked from afar, as Clinton was still in New York. If Howe dared to accuse them of murmurings, he himself might expect to be called delusion.

Julia and Clinton were an odd pair, all right, but no longer suspicious.

The party within the dining room continued and Tavington felt his stomach clench.

Poor fools. They have no notion…none whatsoever.

He was surprised then by Smyth's sudden appearance, as she was followed out into the hall by one of her posh servants.

"I'm leaving," she said, the tone of her voice somewhat less breathy and more direct. Her eyes were clear and concise.

She must sense the disturbance, Tavington mused, but he said nothing.

"I suppose I shall see you again, soon enough," the Major told him as she slipped into her fine cloak and took her hat upon her head. "Give my regards to Captain Andre, will you?"

"I do not know where he has gone," Tavington admitted. He looked plaintively over his shoulder, half-expecting the man to come creeping out of the shadows and back into life.

Smyth only smiled brilliantly. "I'm sure he'll turn up sooner or later. Good evening."

Tavington affected a bow and earned a stiff salute from her in return.

"Never mind the dark," he heard her say to her small servant once they were out in Philadelphia's streets. "We have not far to travel."

Author's Note: Thanks so much for taking the time to read!