Author's note: There is some VERY broken and bad French spoken in this chapter. I am sure it is not proper or correct French, but intended this way for the character. Like me, she is having to recall French (never spoken fluently by myself, in fact, very badly) from years ago and most likely "butchers" it when speaking it to the other particular character. Nonetheless, the character she is speaking to recognizes enough of the "broken french" combined with her actions and body language to understand what she wants. Thanks for bearing with me.
Chapter 29 Deterring The Determined
Immediately upon Tavington's Legion's return to Fort Carolina, the officers were briefed about Miss Prescott's disappearance and alleged kidnapping. Major Bordon was instantly furious, charging back out toward his horse, having to be held back by three men to prevent him from taking on the entire rebel army by himself.
Colonel Tavington had orders from General O'Hara that they could not spare too many men to look for the girl. They would have to do with a couple of detachments over two days. After that, they'd have to make do with combining search efforts for her while on patrols.
Almost immediately Bordon and Wilkins, the other intelligence officer, took two small detachments and divided the countryside. They canvassed the area riding furiously, talking to their village and country informants for any information. Before they'd left, they had combed the prisoner compound, questioning their imprisoned informants for information.
Nearly right away, in the village of Devington, the madam of the local brothel, one of Bordon's reliable informants due to the slack jawed men coming in and out, had some information for him. The two talked outside, away from the women and the customers inside.
"Major, I don't know how or if this will help you," she began, "but I have heard a rumor."
"The source?" asked Alex.
"I can't tell you the exact source," she stated. "I heard it last week on a rare night out away from here. I was in the village pub and got into a card game with some older gentlemen from this village."
"Tories?" he questioned.
"No. Rebel supporters," replied the madam. "They're not soldiers—they're too old to fight. They brought up something about that pacifist's daughter."
"What," Bordon asked, his interest piqued.
"May I speak frankly what I heard," she asked almost apologetically, "for you may not like it."
"Yes, please," Bordon permitted.
"They said that she is your mistress, sir," she answered.
"Thank you," he said pressing a couple of sovereigns into her hand.
Alexander neither confirmed nor denied this to the woman. He mounted his horse, staying silent as he thought about what she'd revealed. The info wouldn't help him find the girl, but it let him know that there was an information leak at the fort. As an intelligence officer, he understood and expected that some information would find its way out—that is the nature of gossip. But now he feared that if they knew about something that was kept discreet, he wondered how much other sensitive information was getting out. The officer also wondered if this information might keep his lover safe—or harm her.
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Melanie woke with a start, jerking her head up off her folded arms as she lay on her stomach in the small tent. She must have fallen asleep, but didn't remember consciously laying her head down. Through the thin canvas she could tell that it was still light outside, but had no idea what time it was.
The young woman crawled out of the tent and stood up slowly and stiffly, looking about at the militia camp activity as she did. She felt the sudden urge to urinate badly, and without thinking, began to walk swiftly toward the woods.
"And where do you think you're going, Missy," a rebel called to her, stopping her.
"I have to urinate," she stated in a tired voice.
"I'll take you."
"Very well," she replied, not caring because she needed to pee badly.
The man escorted her to a makeshift outhouse made of canvas with a chamber pot inside. After a moment the girl emerged again, ready to move back to her tent, not wishing to mix with any of these men.
As she crossed the clearing, a group of rebel militiamen accosted her. They grabbed at her skirt and dress, saying lewd things to her.
"Why don't you give us what you give Brutal Bordon?"
"Or are you not used to men lower than officers?"
"C'mon, girlie, give it to us!"
"Stop!," Miss Prescott cried. "Leave me alone!"
The men kept pawing at her, pushing her back and forth between them.
"We'll send you back to your major all used up," they taunted cruelly. "You won't be any good to him!"
"No. Please!" Melanie screamed as she did her best to fight off the men.
"Come here, Redcoat whore!"
About this time, a group of enlisted men, uniformed colonial regulars, were passing by on the main path through the camp. They heard the commotion, especially the screams of a woman. In this particular camp, tensions had been running high between the militia and the uniformed regulars. The militia men were mad that the uniformed enlisted men were paid, and the regulars were upset that the militia could come and go as they pleased instead of serving a set term. The undercurrent of this strife, coupled with the havoc of war, tired and underfed men made for a volatile situation. The men seemed to be just looking for a reason to fight a let off steam. And poor Melanie happened to end up in the middle of it.
The bluecoats immediately jumped in, using the excuse of rescuing the mistreated women. "You men can't treat women this way, no matter who they are! You give us a bad name!"
"Turn her loose!"
With that punches and bodies were thrown. Men were shoved and fists were drawn and insults flung. The warring factions were quickly woven about her, the girl solidly in the middle. Feeling as if she would be crushed, she tried to catch her breath. The young woman shoved back with all her might, trying to drill through the crowd to get out of it.
Soon a rogue punch caught her in the eye, making her senseless for an instant and bringing about flashes of light before the injured eye. When she regained her senses, Miss Prescott continued trying to find a way out of the crowd. She noticed that it was getting bigger, seeming to draw men from all over the place. Her screams for mercy got lost in the din of the men hurling insults at each other.
She surmised quickly that if she couldn't push her way out on her feet, maybe she should drop low and try to crawl out. Melanie tried to drop to her knees but the crush of bodies was too much that she could barely move. She was at the mercy of however the crowd carried her.
After another moment, another disembodied fist landed squarely on her jaw, knocking her out of the group. The hit brought tears to her eyes and knocked her off her feet. Melanie stayed on the ground for a moment, feeling the sting and burn of the punch, but glad to be out of the middle of the fray. As she came back around, she watched the horrid scene of the fight from the ground in disbelief. No one noticed, not that they had even cared when they initially began fighting, that she was no longer in the middle of them.
Miss Prescott shook her head at this unbelievable sight: men all fighting for the same cause battling each other. The girl thought these men and the whole camp absolutely insane. She then decided that she would not spend one more moment there, deeming herself unsafe amidst the craziness. The young woman, not knowing where she was and thinking it was probably near sunset, would take her chances and escape. She surmised that she would be safer out wandering the woods after dark making her way back into British hands than she was to stay there.
Quickly pulling herself to her feet, she watched the fight, still growing with men and seeming that no one was trying to break it up. Melanie could see that they still hadn't noticed her there. She began to inch backwards, never taking her eyes off the action. She looked around once, seeing the fight still distracting everyone. Then the girl disappeared behind some tents, still able to hear the din of the fracas. As soon as she cleared the tent line, she turned and ran as fast as her feet would carry her.
Just as she did, an officer in a light blue uniform who had been barking unheard orders at the men to cease fighting, turned away from the fight in his frustration. As he did this, he caught sight of the prisoner that Martin's men had brought into the camp earlier in the day, fleeing into the woods. When he saw this and noticed no one following her, he surmised an escape attempt. He immediately gave chase. As he ran into the woods after the young woman, he recalled that this was the same prisoner who had escaped from the British three times. The man, though breathing heavily, was cursing in French to himself as he ran, wondering why the girl didn't have a guard on her.
Melanie ran out of one set of woods and through a clearing, looking back to see someone chasing her now. The girl panicked and tried to run faster. She galloped into another set of woods, hoping to lose the man. But she could hear him gaining on her.
Seeing the woods thinning out ahead, the girl kept urging herself on, thoroughly winded. She soon reached a main gravel road. The girl took her chances, running down the road hoping to run into someone that would help her.
In another moment, Miss Prescott felt her body go down hard in the gravel, tackled by the man in the blue uniform. Both he and the girl were scraped up badly and bruised equally as bad by the road rock. The man was cursing the girl furiously in a foreign language. As she tried to wiggle out from under him, she recognized the language as French.
The officer jerked her hard to her feet, gripping her arm in a bruising hold. He continued cursing a la francais as he brushed himself off with his other hand. Melanie had been to France a few years ago with her father on a peace mission and had learned some French there. She struggled now to recall some words, hoping to appeal to the French officer.
The man started to march himself and his charge back toward the encampment. Miss Prescott tried speaking a few words of French to the man.
"L'aide moi," she said, recalling that she thought that was the correct phrase for 'help me'.
He continued to mutter in french to himself, not acknowledging her feeble attempt at the language.
Melanie continued on in her appeal. "Uh….um…..secour moi." Again, she thought she remembered that as another phrase for 'help me'.
"S'il vous plait, monsieur," she begged , referring to him respectfully as 'mister', not knowing his rank.
The Frenchman continued to move her along, at times practically dragging her. And she went on speaking to him in her best broken French.
"Uh..lacher…..lacher moi," she pleaded, trying to convey 'let go of me'.
The officer did not answer her. He shook his head and went on cursing furiously in French.
"Liberation…..um…..uh…..libere moi," she asked again, hoping she was correctly saying ' release me' a la francais.
The officer responded with a tough jerk of her arm, making her wince. Melanie began crying, not wanting to go back to that insane encampment.
"Delivrer moi," she cried, desperately wanting that to be the words for 'free me'.
When she could see that her weak pleas in french were not swaying the man, she cried even harder. "Monsieur, non! S' il vous plait!" She tried digging her heels into the gravel.
The Frenchman stopped in his tracks, turned back to his charge and gave her a menacing look. Miss Prescott cringed when he did.
He yanked her arm again, pulling her along with him. "Sir, please! Please don't make me go back. I'm afraid!"
She finally stopped trying to appeal to the man, knowing that her pleas were landing on deaf ears. The girl continued sobbing as neared the camp. The Frenchman picked up the pace, nearly running now to get back into the camp. At her tent, he flung back the tent flap and threw her in.
Melanie landed hard on her bedroll. She promptly buried her face and wailed.
Outside the tent, the French officer looked about for a soldier. He spied a middle aged militia man and barked orders at him. "Billings!," he summoned.
"Yes major," he replied.
"Please stay here and watch this woman," he directed. "Don't let her out of your sight!"
"Yes sir," he answered.
"Where is Colonel Martin?"
"Right over there," Billings answered pointing across the debris filled clearing.
The French officer, Major Villeneuve, stomped over to where Benjamin Martin stood. The militia colonel was watching men clean up after the huge brawl of a few moments ago.
"Colonel," the Frenchman began, "I see the situation is finally under control."
"Yes, Jean," he answered flatly.
"You really must learn to have more control over your men," Major Villeneuve, who was sent there to help train the militia, admonished. "Things got out of hand too quickly."
"Jean, I'm trying," Martin replied. "Tension is high. The men are hungry and tired. That doesn't help things."
"Yes, I know," Jean acknowledged. "While your men were fighting, Miss Prescott fled."
Colonel Martin's jaw dropped. "She's gone?"
"No, she's back now," Villeneuve stated. "I chased her myself and caught her."
"Thank you, Jean."
"Why isn't there a guard on her at all times," he asked. "She is a troublemaker. You know she escaped from the British on three occasions. Number four was just a few moments ago."
"Frankly, I don't have the manpower to put her under constant guard," he answered.
"Well, something must be done, or she will attempt it again, I'm sure," Major Villenueve pointed out. "She will wait for a distraction then flee!"
"Major Burwell isn't due back until week's end," Ben stated.
Jean frowned at this, not wanting to have to chase the girl a second time.
"Do you have a guard on her now," asked Ben.
The French major nodded 'yes'.
"Very well, then. I'll go now to a commander and ask for help with her," he assured the other officer.
With that, Ben Martin headed off toward the commanding officers section of the camp. He couldn't even predict what the answer would be to his request.
In a few moments, he found himself at Colonel Bratton's tent. After being announced, the militia leader entered the large abode.
"Colonel Bratton, I'd like your advice and help," Martin requested.
"Certainly."
"We have a troublesome prisoner in our midst," Ben stated.
"Who?"
"It's Miss Prescott."
"Hayden Prescott's daughter," asked Bratton.
"The same," answered the militia officer. "She tried to escape moments ago and was caught."
"Oh," Colonel Bratton said, raising his eyebrows in concern.
"She has a history," Ben began, "Intelligence tells us that she fled the British three times and was caught."
"Sounds like she's not very good at it," Bratton said with a light chuckle.
"Apparently not," Martin agreed, "since she is apprehended every time. But the point of the matter is expending men and time to chase her down for said apprehension."
"I see. Put a guard on her."
"That's just it," Ben pointed out. "My militia unit has suffered casualties of late plus I have men on leave for awhile. I don't have any men to spare."
"Hmmm….and the regulars don't fare much better than that," Bratton declared. "So throw her in the jail section."
"I can't," Colonel Martin stated. "We have orders from Colonel Burwell to keep her separated."
Bratton was silent for a moment, thinking how to handle the problem. After another minute, he spoke up. "Well, if she's bold enough to try escape, we'll incapacitate her so she can't attempt it."
"Sir?" Ben questioned, a bit of dread washing over him. He watched his commanding officer closely.
Colonel Bratton opened his inkwell, dipped his pen and began writing. He spoke as he continued scrawling on the paper. "I am writing an order to have her disciplined. Her punishment will both serve as a deterrent to future escape attempts and effectively hobble her."
"I hope it's not too harsh," Benjamin opined.
"No, the effects are temporary," Bratton informed, "but painful enough that she won't be able to walk for the next few days."
Colonel Martin thanked the commander and ducked out of the tent. As soon as the ink dried, Bratton folded, stamped and sealed the order.
"Runner," he called. A small boy soon appeared in the tent.
"Take this immediately to Sergeant Johnson in the Pennsylvania infantry."
"Yes, sir."
Colonel Bratton was certain that he had done the right thing in ordering punishment. "That should take care of her wandering for awhile," he said to himself.
In just a few moments, the messenger boy located the sergeant at arms and handed the order to him. The man opened the letter and read it silently as the runner disappeared.
"Corporal, we've got an assignment."
"Sir?"
"Find Private Blevins," the sergeant ordered. "The three of us will move out in two minutes. Seems we've got an unruly prisoner to deal with in the South Carolina militia camp."
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Melanie sat on the bedroll in her tent taking stock of the new damage to her hide. The girl's skin now bore fresh scrapes and cuts, skinned up from when the French officer had tackled her on the hard gravel. She surveyed her dress which carried signs of the fall as well, torn and dirty.
The young woman heard rustling outside her tent, assuming the guard had arisen to a standing position. Then she heard male hushed voices. She sat up, now , looking about her and listening intently, wondering if she was the subject of the quiet voices.
She heard her guard say, "She's in there."
Melanie looked up with concern at the tent flap as someone pushed it back.
"Miss Melanie Prescott," a strange man asked.
"Yes?"
"Come with us," he ordered curtly.
The young woman arose cautiously, and exited the tent equally so.
She saw three uniformed colonial regulars standing just outside the tent. The men seemed to tower over her.
Immediately, two men took her by the arms and began to lead her away.
"Where are you taking me?", she asked with alarm.
"We have orders to deal with you," the man in front said. Melanie noticed that he was carrying a piece of parchment.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a little higher now with fright.
The men said nothing and continued to move along. In a moment, the group had made it to a clearing where a wooden stock stood. With that, Melanie assumed she was to be put in it, and began to panic. She dug her heels into the dirt trying to stop the movement. The men jerked her along. She tried pulling away from them but could not get free of their iron grips.
"Don't! No!" she pleaded.
Once at the stocks, the men put her down onto the ground on her back,pinning her there.
"No, Oh no!", Melanie protested, not sure what they were going to do to her.
The two men held her arms and legs down and the man that had led the group removed her shoes, exposing her feet, complete with delicately thin silk stockings. Miss Prescott tried to flail about but was held steadily.
"What?! Why?!" she shouted. The men didn't answer her, continuing to hold the girl down.
She watched in fear as the stocks were opened. The men pulled her forward a little more, her back scraping on the ground. The man not holding the girl down took each of her legs, placing her ankles in the stocks. The other two men continued to hold her arms down.
Then, one of the men let go of her arms and rose to his feet. He took a piece of paper from the other man and opened it. As he did, the commander of the trio moved to the other side of the stock.
"Miss Melanie Prescott," the corporal began to read aloud from the paper, "By order of His Majesty King George, you are to be punished for your attempted escape. You are to be flogged: three lashes each to each foot."
Melanie's eyes widened in horror as she heard the order. She swallowed hard when she saw the sergeant pull a dressage whip from a holder on his belt.
"No….no…please!" she cried. "Oh God! Please don't!".
"NO! NO!" she begged with tears. Her skirt had inched down her legs which were inverted upwards, exposing her knees.
Miss Prescott saw the sergeant's arm rear back. She heard the dreaded sound the whip made as it cut through the air. Next she felt it hit the sole of her right foot, feeling like a knife had cut into her skin. The girl let out a blood curdling scream.
The next lash hit her right foot again, cutting her skin deeply. Melanie felt waves of pain travel down her legs into her supine torso, making her cry out again. The third lash split her skin long ways on her foot from toes to heel, blood instantly pouring out. The sting of the lashing was the worst pain the girl had felt since recovering from her stab wounds.
As the man paused to change positions to drill her left foot, Melanie tried quickly to catch her breath and hold it, readying herself to endure the next set of lashings. She closed her eyes when she saw the sergeant rear back again.
The first flog to her left foot felt as if a hot wire of small gauge had lapped across it. It tore her skin open across her mid sole. Tremors of pain followed her leg down and through her whole body. The second lash felt harder, cutting her left foot deeply longways from ball to heel. The searing heat of the flogging was unbearable, leaving Melanie screaming and begging for mercy. The young woman felt instantly nauseous. She turned her head to the side, feeling as is she would vomit.
The third lashing of her left foot seemed the worse. Melanie screamed aloud, tears flowing freely as she cried. The last blow landed directly on top of her last wound, opening it even more.
The poor girl looked upwards at her ankles in the stocks. She saw blood starting to trickle from her ankles, trailing slowly down her legs. Melanie was panting, trying to catch her breath as she continued to wail. Waves of heat, pain and nausea washed over her. Then her head felt dizzy as she blacked out.
The men removed the unconscious woman's ankles from the stocks, letting them drop hard onto the ground, stirring the dirt up which undoubtedly found its way into the fresh wounds.
The sergeant at arms dismissed the corporal and private. He then reached down and picked up Miss Prescott's limp body, slinging her unceremoniously over his shoulder. The man made his way back over to the girl's tent, bouncing her bouncing her flaccid body about as he did.
When he arrived at the tent, he pulled the flap back and dropped the passed out woman on her bedroll, where her body landed with a hard thump. Within moments, she regained consciousness, screaming out again in agony. The tears flowed as her feet and legs throbbed, making the rest of her body pound with pain. She could feel heat surging through, then engulfing her body. The girl felt as if someone had branded her feet with hot coals.
In a minute, nausea moved over her again. The girl turned herself over onto her back, letting out a yelp as she did for the movement supremely hurt her injured feet. With all her might, she used her arms to pull her prone body out of her tent. Once her head was just outside of the flap, she propped herself up on her elbows and threw up.
When she was done, feeling absolutely spent, she raised her feet and ankles up off the bedroll with great effort so that she could begin to scoot herself backwards into her tent. She took a big breath, trying to steel herself from the impending pain, then pushed her body back into her tent. Trying to keep her feet upwards caused horrible pain, but she knew the agony would be worse if they were on the ground as she pushed backwards against them.
In a moment, she was back in the tent on top of her bedroll and out of breath from the effort. Staying prone, she buried her head in her bedroll and sobbed hard at the horrid pain she felt, plus the humiliation of being publically punished. Suddenly, the girl felt another terrible rush of pain surrounding and rushing through her body, making her gasp.
After another minute of agony, Melanie mercifully fainted.
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Author's note: Foot whipping was a form of punishment. It still is in some countries. The sole of the foot has bundles of sensitive nerve endings as well as small bones. Also, if one didn't want visible scars left such as those from a back flogging, the feet hid the scars well. Foot flogging was very painful, causing the feet to swell, bruise, cutting/splitting the skin with superficial or sometimes deep cuts, depending on how hard the lash was administered. It was an effective and temporary way to incapacitate a person.
Women as well as men were flogged. The offense usually dictated how many lashes one received.
