CHAPTER 29 Revenge
Within a few days of his conversation with General O'Hara requesting furlough to find Karen, William and his dragoons were readying for a decisive battle coming up in the next few days. Colonel Tavington and Major Bordon had taken a small detachment of dragoons on a reconnaissance mission in the area.
As nightfall neared, they were in the proximity of the English main camp not far from a rolling field where cows were penned, having proposed that the attack would take place somewhere in the vicinity. Not knowing the trails well enough to ride in the dark and having no local guide with them, they decided to make camp for the night.
At Sunset of this day, their riding ended at a clearing on the edge of some woods at the bottom of a hill. Tavington would have usually chosen the crest of this glen for the advantage of higher ground but thought the lower ground near the water more strategic, affording them a hiding place just off the road. They were next to a rocky, babbling creek where the men could wash up and horses could be watered.
Once all the steeds were tied up at the creek for water, the small group went immediately to setting up camp for the evening. A shallow fire pit was quickly dug, a fire made and dinner put on to cook. Supper this evening was boiled chicken, courtesy of the farm in which it had been confiscated from earlier in the day.
As the food cooked, the men went to work setting up their tents. Within an hour, the clearing had been turned into a dragoon campsite consisting of 12 small tents. For these short or overnight missions, the men—even the officers—had only room for the small wedge tents usually issued to privates. The miniscule lodgings were set up quickly on their "A" shaped frames, and staked down equally as fast. Though small, they gave protection and privacy for the single soldier that dwelt within.
Colonel Tavington preferred the larger, more roomy tents which were supplied to the commanders within semi-permanent camp situations which were set up for weeks to months. But only so much could be packed in one's saddle bags, so all carried the smallest of tents. He missed a desk to write at, small table to sit at, and comfy cot which were the commander's privileges. But this evening, Tavington was so fatigued that the tiny canvas dwelling of a private suited him fine.
The small group of 12 men were tired and weary. They ate without much conversation and turned in early. The whole campsite was quiet and sleepy, save for the two commanders, still awake finishing paperwork, and Private Higgins, the first sentry on duty.
Miles Bordon had been unusually quiet all day long, and just as pensive in the camp this evening. Now in his tent, he quickly finished up jotting the day's events in his field diary and reclined back on his bedroll. As he closed his eyes, he was haunted by thoughts of Miss Laura Pratt, as he had been for most of the day. His mind raced: How would he face her once they arrived back at the McKinnon's? He would run into her surely. Should he let the situation die and remain a cad in one woman's eyes? If he did, he risked her shooting her mouth off to everyone, staining his reputation. Still it would be his word against hers, and most certainly everyone would believe any lie he could concoct about their trysts. He could take the higher road, risk his parent's scorn and possible disinheritance, but be able to live with himself and find possible happiness.
The officer tried to push all of that out of his mind, but the thoughts seemed to scream loudly within, causing him to wonder how to find any immediate peace. Miles sat up and sighed, looking about the small tent. A smile soon crossed his face. The officer reached for his jacket, retrieving his Rosary beads from the inner pocket. He always seemed to find tranquility when he held that most precious gift from his parents.
With beads in hand, Major Bordon closed his eyes and whispered the introductory Rosary prayers. He felt better momentarily. But by the time he reached the first decade of beads, he found his thoughts moving back to Laura. He tried to force himself to concentrate on his prayers as his fingers moved from bead to bead, but kept losing the count of prayers. After a few frustrating tries, he heaved an exasperated sigh. "Sorry Father," he apologized to the Lord under his breath, "Not tonight. Forgive me."
Meanwhile in his commander's meager tent, the Colonel was having similar problems trying to rest. William tried to sleep, but could not relax. In the quiet of the night, Will's thoughts traveled naturally to Karen, whom he longed to be with. He also puzzled over why he found himself dreading the impending battle, just wanting to get it over with quickly as possible, as he usually thrived on the excitement and anticipation of combat. It seemed that all that mattered to him anymore was reconciling with Karen as soon as possible and putting right the grievous wrong he'd done.
Will lit a low lantern in his small tent. The officer partially unfolded one of the maps of the area, studied it, then jotted a couple of notes on it. He paused for a moment, trying to recall the name of one of the roads they'd traveled earlier that day when he heard a rustling outside the canvas.
"Colonel." He recognized Bordon's deep voice, now hushed lest he wake the men.
"Yes," William responded in time to see the canvas parting and Bordon crawling into the small space.
"I saw the lantern," announced Bordon in a whisper, "and figured you must be having as much trouble sleeping as I am, so I thought I'd join you."
Major Bordon seated himself at the foot of Tavington's bedroll, feet from where his commander sat at the opposite end of the tent. The two dragoon leaders now sat crosslegged, quiet for the moment.
William spoke, not bothering to look up from the map he studied. "My haversack is down there." Bordon instinctively reached for the thing and picked it up. Assuming the colonel needed it, he started to pass it to the man.
Still studying the map intently, he did not take the pack from his adjutant's hand. "There's a bottle of Port in there," William announced.
Bordon put the pack down in front of him and pulled out the bottle of wine. He shot a questioning look at his superior and friend, his eyebrows raised. Tavington caught the queried look of his adjutant as he glanced up from the map.
"Oh, it was confiscated from that cabin we searched earlier today," he confessed. "Didn't you notice that I was the last one out?"
"No," Bordon chuckled. "We need it more than the rebels do, don't we?"
"Yes, maybe a bit of that will help us sleep. Here," Tavington said as pulled his empty silver flask, the one with the engraved "WT" on it, along with his tin coffee cup out and gave them both to his aide-de-camp.
Miles removed the cork, refilled Tav's flask, then poured himself some of the wine into the coffee cup. "Cheers," he saluted raising his cup to his friend.
Tavington responded in kind. He marked another spot on the map, not noticing how quiet his second in command was.
"What was the name of that road we were on today. I Can't recall…" Tavington requested, his voice trailing off.
"The York Road," Bordon answered.
"Thank you," Tavington acknowledged. He soon found the road on the map and made a note next to it.
As William folded the map back into a more compact shape, he noticed Bordon absently palming his Rosary. He gave a silent look of question to the major, pointing to the beads in his hand.
"Oh, I couldn't sleep," Miles acknowledged, forgetting it was still wrapped about his hand. "My mother used to tell me to recite the Rosary when I had trouble sleeping. She said it wasn't a sin to fall asleep amidst prayer, as if it gave one more protection to nod off while addressing God."
Tavington snickered quietly at that observation. Bordon continued. "She always acted as if the Rosary was something miraculous, not that prayer isn't strong, but she reveres it like it is some sort of magic incantation that can solve anything."
Miles took a sip of the Port, then went on. "As an adult, I've found that this isn't the case. God doesn't necessarily bestow the answers just because you recite the Rosary. More and more of my prayers seem to go unanswered."
William, his cravat off and neck of his shirt open, instinctively touched the Saint Christopher medal he wore always that Karen had given him. He spoke as he rubbed the medal between his fingers. "I used to think the Rosary was magical as well when I was a child until a priest told me that it's the Lord's choice whether or not ever to give us an answer. And thanks to those wondrous words of wisdom from Father Gerring, I now pray less than ever because God is going to do whatever He pleases no matter what you ask, however humbly and fervently."
Both men laughed as they savored their drinks of Port. Bordon pressed his Rosary beads into his pocket then spoke. "I hear that you will be settling here in the colonies when all this business is done," Bordon said in a hushed tone. He took another pull on his drink.
"Yes," acknowledged William. "Had to make a deal with the devil to get it. Lord Corwallis will give me a land grant in exchange for the Ghost, allowing me to use whatever methods we see fit to get him."
Tavington sipped another bit of wine, then continued. "It all works out perfectly. It will be a place for Karen and our family. Besides, I can't very well return to England in shame."
"I can't imagine you a farmer," Bordon commented. "What about flour mills, like your family had?"
"A rather large plantation or farm," answered the colonel. "I might try to start some mills. I rather hoped to become a general of the highest rank. Then maybe a territorial governor."
Major Bordon was quiet for a moment, then spoke again. "Aren't you worried about retribution from the locals?"
"No, not at all. They will either respect me or fear me."
Another moment of quiet passed between the two officers. Tavington broke the silence. "Why do you ask?"
Bordon hesitated a minute, then answered. " I pondered using part of my inheritance to purchase a farm here."
Tavington, leaning back slightly as if to get a better look at his subordinate, raised his eyebrows. "I'm surprised. You love England so much. I thought you were anxious to get back there."
"Uh….Yes….no.." Miles stammered. "My father is anxious for me to return—"
"To become the emperor of the Bordon furniture empire," Tavington interrupted questioningly.
The major nodded then became introspective. He spoke up again, subdued and looking down at the canvas. "I'm just looking at all the future options."
Colonel Tavington suspected that something was up. His aide–de-camp had been anxious to return home to England to head up his family's business. And, the man was always happy to please his parents.
The colonel chuckled quietly. "Bordon—The Gentleman Farmer."
"Maybe," Miles sighed. Again, more quiet.
"Your answers are unusually short," Tavington remarked. "What's the trouble, Major?"
"Nothing," Bordon replied trying to shrug things off.
"Come now, Miles. How many years have we been friends?"
Miles let out a sigh of protest although William was determined not to give up. Bordon's sudden change of heart over wanting to stay in the colonies had piqued his interest.
"Tell me," began William in a sly voice, "would your sudden and shocking decision to stay be because of a pretty blonde servant?"
The Major's eyes widened in disbelief. He immediately caught himself and tried to play it down. "Nothing of the sort."
Tavington knew he had hit a nerve. A huge look of conquering delight spread across his face. "I knew you fancied her," he exclaimed in a roguish voice.
"I assure you, there is nothing between us," Miles lied. "It is innocent."
"I saw her leaving your room late one night looking disheveled and quite exhausted."
"That doesn't mean anything," argued Bordon. "Her duties have her all over that house at various hours."
"You pulled her back through the door three times," Tavington pointed out with a smirk. "And Karen saw you holding her hand."
"She's been my mistress for some time now," Miles admitted without further hesitation.
"Bordon, you scoundrel!" hooted Tavington. He simply could not resist having a joke about it at his second in command's expense. "Well, it seems Major Bordon the gentleman has been less than honorable. What a naughty boy your are!"
The Major suddenly turned red with embarrassment. He was quiet for a moment, reflecting painfully on the whole situation between him and Laura.
"She was innocent," Bordon remarked in a dejected tone. "And I've made her into a whore."
Tavington was still having too much fun at Bordon's revelation. He ignored his adjutant's obvious distress over the situation.
"It's a good thing that Tarleton doesn't know of this. I could just imagine him over a game of Faro," Tavington proclaimed. He then acted as though he held a hand of cards, and imitating Banastre's voice he joked, "I'd like to wager for myself a turn with Bordon's whore."
Tavington laughed quietly at his joke as Bordon cringed. The words "Bordon's whore" seemed to burn a hole into him.
"Don't joke about this, William," he begged. "I feel badly enough about it as it is. She probably is not going to be my mistress much longer."
"Why not?"
"We had a terrible row last night. I talked horribly to her. She must think me a fiend. She will probably tell Mrs. McKinnon that I seduced her and I'll be turned out of the house."
"No," disagreed William. "She would be exposing herself if she says anything about you. Then she will be dismissed from the household."
"I could tell she had feelings for us," Bordon confessed, "So I treated her like a harlot, hoping to discourage her from emotion. I made her cry last night. She ran out of my room in tears."
"Miles, do you know how many times I've made Karen cry? And, they only cry because they love you. And we only feel guilty about those tears when we love them."
Both men took another drink, then Tavington spoke again. "No wonder you had your Rosary out. You're going to need God's help with this one."
"I don't know what to do," Bordon sighed. "I can't take a servant girl home to my family—they would never accept her. If I stay here, at least I may have a chance at trying courtship with the girl."
Tavington nodded his head in agreement.
Bordon continued on, still lost on what to do of the situation. "At least from here, an ocean's length away, it will be easier to lie to my parents about her social status."
William leaned back as a grin crossed his face. "I recall something you said years ago. In fact, on the day I proposed to Karen. We were on our horses at the end of her lane, parting. You made the comment that you would probably fall in love with a beautiful poor girl and marry her."
"I have said that before, haven't I?" Bordon said with uncertaintly. "It seems I predicted my own future."
"So, you love her?" Tavington asked.
"I...I don't know," Miles stammered. "I don't know how I feel or what to do."
"Miles," began William, "my advice is to stay here in this land of opportunity and do whatever the Hell you want with whomever you please."
Both men shared a laugh at the humor. Tavington shook his head. "Ah, love is wonderful—and excruciating."
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Colonel Tavington was the first one up that morning. He was anxious to return to the main encampment and meet with Captain Wentworth. He had left the junior officer in charge of the Dragoons that remained behind at Cornwallis' camp.
William put some wood on the coals and built the fire back up. Then he fetched water, set it by the fire, and started some coffee. He went about his duties quietly, letting the other men sleep. The commander sat down on a log and wrote some notes in his field diary, relishing the peace as he nibbled on some bread from his pack and drank some coffee.
Within thirty minutes, Major Bordon was up and roused the other men awake. As soon as the others were up and around, Miles ran to the creek to groom quickly and get back to the men. While the aide-de-camp was gone, Tavington talked with the Higgins, the overnight sentry, noting his observations, then looked about the immediate camp area, noticing more about it in the morning light than when they arrived there at twilight last evening.
The men began to cook breakfast, while others broke down the tents and gathered their things to leave. Tavington went down to the water to shave and wash up while the others were eating. He would get his hot food when he was finished. Bordon met him on his way back up to the camp, wrapping his smoothly braided hair as he walked.
At the creek, William washed up quickly. He dipped his hands in the cold water and ran them through his long hair, making it wet and wavy. Then he put his shirt and coat back on, leaving them unbuttoned and hanging as he finished up.
William stood up from where he was and surveyed his men for a moment, checking on things. He absentmindedly ran his brush through his dark mane of hair as he looked around the woods and land next to the creek bank.
After a few minutes, he squatted down close to the water, preparing to shave when his stomach growled from hunger. He could smell the breakfast cooking. As William looked up at the camp, his view partially obscured by a large tree, he watched Bordon momentarily packed things into his saddlebags.
The men were subdued this morning. Tavington knew everyone was tired and the faster they got back to the safety of Cornwallis' camp, the better. They could have a little more rest once there.
William's hair was still very damp as he shaved. He'd leave it loose as he ate breakfast and let the fire dry his mane. He'd deal with getting it back into its regulation wrapped queue last thing before riding off. The smoke from the campfire moved slowly through the hollow of the brook, filling it, and making the colonel's stomach growl again.
Major Bordon ate light this morning and drank a quick cup of coffee. As the fire from breakfast burned down, keeping the last bit of food for the colonel warm, the men finished packing their things. The second in command surveyed the camp and noted that they were ready to leave as quickly as the commander finished breakfast.
As he waited for Tavington to return, Bordon leaned back against a tree watching the men mill about and surveying the area around the camp. Miles thought he heard something. The major cocked his head to the side then came forward from the tree to stand up straight.
Major Bordon strained to see where the noise came from. Just then, at the crest of the hill, he could see the heads of men and horses. After a few seconds, they appeared at the apex of the slope and were barreling straight down toward the camp. They wore no uniforms, so he knew it was rebels. The officer was immediately on edge.
"To arms! To Arms!" Bordon shouted the alarm. He ran immediately to his horse to retrieve his firearms.
Tavington stood up fast, looking up at the camp to see what was the matter. He had heard Bordon's frantic cries and saw the men scurrying about. From his point, the large tree and the smoke from the breakfast fire partially obscured the view of the horsemen, so he wasn't sure how many they were up against. Will cursed himself for not having brought a weapon down with him.
He threw down his razor and mirror and sprinted up the creek bank to the horses as fast as his legs could carry him. It wasn't until he'd passed the trees that he saw they were outnumbered.
His men and the rebels were already shooting at each other. Tavington and Bordon both pulled all their weapons from their saddlebags and holsters. Both men shot from near where the horses stood, each hitting a Colonial. Two dragoons had already been hit and a third was shot right in front of William. He went down to the ground and William jumped over him to continue fighting.
Bordon, with pistol in the left hand and sword in the right, got off another good shot as his sword swung above his head, readying to slice into an unlucky rebel. The second officer then moved forward to use his sword. He saw one of the dragoons fighting hand to hand with one of the rebels. Miles saw his underling knocked to the ground as the rebel butted him with his musket.
Tavington began swinging his sword. He got his first foe, slicing him across the abdomen then knocking him in the back of his head with the handle of his pistol. He quickly went after another colonial, deftly swinging his sabre and wounding the man severely in first the stomach, then the back.
Major Bordon went after a younger rebel that was trying to reload. The look on Bordon's face was one of determination as he raced toward the young man. Miles attacked with an unleashed ferocity. He swung the sword several times but the young man was blocking the cuts with his musket.
Tavington sunk his weapon into the gut of a third rebel, pulling it hard out of his belly. He threw down his sword and reloaded his pistol with fast precision, never taking his eyes off of his rebel target. He wanted to shoot at one of the men that was close to where Bordon was fighting. He shot and killed.
Meanwhile, Bordon, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his body, was pounding away with his sword on the young man, trying to get in just one good slice. He could tell that the boy was wearing down and would soon not be able to block the blows, then Bordon would sink the sword.
Suddenly, the major felt a sharp blow to his back which knocked him forward. A man with the rebels, one the dragoons knew as a clergyman, had rammed his musket butt into the center of Miles's back. The momentum launched him forward and knocked the wind out of him. As he tried desperately to get his bearings and catch his breath, the young man reached into his boot and pulled out a dagger, which he stuck hard into Bordon's middle.
Miles gasped, feeling a hot searing sensation as he felt the blade sink into his belly, causing him to drop his own weapon. The young man pulled the dagger out and stabbed Bordon again higher up in the abdomen. The officer's eyes widened in pain as his hand went to the dagger, feeling it still stuck there in his belly. He instinctively held on to the knife as if to prevent the young rebel from pulling it out and stabbing him yet a third time. Bordon howled out in agony and gasped again as he fell to the ground on his side. He laid there as he heard gunfire, trying to catch his breath. Then he passed out.
Tavington witnessed Bordon go down after the Reverend and young man had ganged up on him. The young rebel, still a few feet away from William, looked familiar. Tavington bit off the tab and reloaded his pistol lightning fast, staring down his foe. The clergyman had reloaded his musket and aimed it at William. The Colonel was not afraid. He pointed his pistol and got a shot off before the cleric could, shooting the preacher through the side and knocking him to his knees.
As Reverend Oliver went down, his loaded musket flew out of his hands and back over his head landing in the hands of the youngest rebel. The young man, the only rebel left standing, now faced off against Tavington, the only dragoon left upright. They aimed at each other. The young rebel's musket shot leapt from his gun first, hitting Colonel Tavington in the left side.
William's eyes rounded in pain as the ball tore through his body. He dropped his weapon. Both hands grabbed at the wound in his side, gasping in torment as he did. Then his knees buckled and he fell to the ground on his front, groaning in pain.
The young rebel saw no movement from Colonel Tavington, who lay on the ground prone and silent, amidst the other dead and injured. The young man then stepped back to Bordon, who was still unconscious, and pulled his dagger from the dragoon's belly. He then walked quietly over to Tavington, either to finish him off, or to hack his dragoon body to shreds.
He stood over the silent commander for a moment with a determined look on his face. The man raised the dagger to plunge it into his victim, when all of a sudden, Tavington rolled over on to his back eyes wide open and wild, and thrust his sword hard up into the rebel's abdomen. As William looked into the face of the young rebel now impaled on his sabre, he recognized the man as Gabriel Martin, son of the Ghost.
Now it all made sense to him. Gabriel obviously figured out which dragoon had ordered the church burnt with his new wife in it, had chased them down for revenge and finally caught up to them after two months. Now, Tavington was watching Gabriel die upon his own sword. The young rebel had nothing but hate for Tavington in his eyes as he struggled to breathe and felt the painful wound.
William forced Gabriel's wounded body over on to the ground. He pushed himself up to sitting and caught his breath, the wound making it hard to breathe. Then he slowly stood up, groaning as he did.
Colonel Tavington looked down at the dying Gabriel Martin with disdain. He was gasping for air. William narrowed his eyes at the rebel, then pulled the sabre out of Martin's abdomen. Gabriel groaned loudly as his body wrenched painfully upwards with the sword.
Tavington's face, partly shaven smooth and half shadowed by stubble, was now grimy with gunpowder and smoke. His uniform was blood spattered and dirty. William's side ached terribly from where he'd been shot.
Quickly pulling his shirt up out of his breeches, he slipped his right hand underneath it to assess his injury. He ran his fingers over his side and ribs, feeling entry and exit holes. The skin around the wound was still hot from where the bullet had passed through him.
Good, he thought. Bullet's not lodged. Clean wound.
His fingers were covered with blood as he took them from his shirt. William raised the garment, craned his head to the side and down to see the wound. It was not bleeding profusely, only lightly and slowly.
A rustling in the bushes startled him and instinctively, he started to run, not knowing who or how many were coming at him. He couldn't very well fight them alone and injured. The Colonel was relieved to see one of the horses trampling out of the brush.
With adrenaline still flooding his veins, Tavington regained his senses. As he did, he looked around at the carnage. Dead and injured Dragoons and rebels lay all about him. He quickly assessed heavy casualties William felt very alone. He was the only man standing upright in the middle of the mess. Anger and sorrow passed through him at the sight of his men, all dead. His eyes started to sting as tears formed. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and drew in a deep breath, willing the show of defeat away. Those fucking rebels won't break me, he thought.
Colonel Tavington thought he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye. He looked to his left and caught sight of the back of Major Bordon. He had lost track of Bordon while fighting or reloading his guns. He recalled last seeing him fighting Gabriel Martin. He didn't remember much after that with his own wound and the other excitement and struggle.
William ran to where Bordon was laying on the ground curled up in a fetal position on his side. Tavington dropped to his knees beside his second in command. Miles Bordon opened his eyes.
"William," he said in a weak and pained voice, "I kept quiet so they'd think I was dead."
Tavington smiled, though deeply concerned. "Where are you hurt?"
"My gut," he answered.
The Colonel gently rolled Bordon on to his back, causing him to groan aloud in misery.
"Sorry," he apologized. Tavington looked at Bordon's uniform, soaked with blood and covered with dirt and dust. He pushed the injured officer's coat aside, then unbuttoned his vest. Miles winced as Tavington pulled his shirt up and out of his pants to look at the wound. He wiped the blood away from the wound as gently as possible with his handkerchief. There were two stab wounds in the abdomen. They spurted blood and oozed profusely.
"Who did it?" Tavington asked.
"That young Martin, the son. The post rider from that farm," answered Miles.
The major's breathing was labored as he groaned in pain. William could see that he was having trouble talking, but wanted to keep him conscious.
"The one that escaped during the Ghost's first massacre?" William questioned, yet tried to finish what Miles was saying since the adjutant was laboring to speak.
"Yes," Bordon answered with another gasp. "We should have hung him right there at that farm when we had the chance."
"I took care of him," retorted the Colonel. "He's as good as dead." William reached into Miles's jacket pocket to retrieve a handkerchief and continued. "He shot me." Tavington pushed up his shirt and showed his wound to his friend.
Bordon groaned at the sight of it, making his own wound hurt that much more, and closed his eyes.
William re-folded the handkerchief and continued on. "So, I fell and played dead. Fortunately, my sword was on the ground near me. He came over to finish me off. I caught him off guard. Rolled over fast and ran him through."
Tavington put the handkerchief on Bordon's wound for a moment as he thought to himself about the situation. He knew the officer's wounds were deep, but he wasn't sure how deep. William judged them potentially fatal, but treatable, if he could get help for him. He assumed that Miles would be out of commission on recovery for months.
Major Bordon's mouth and chin were bloodied, which concerned William. He wasn't sure if he'd taken a hit to the mouth, or if a blade had penetrated into his stomach. He rummaged Miles's jacket pockets and found another handkerchief. He used it to wipe the blood from Bordon's mouth and chin.
"Alright," the Colonel said in his commanding tone, "I've got to get you to a surgeon."
"No," Miles bellowed. The thought of moving from where he lay made him all the more sick. "Just leave me. I'll slow you down."
"Don't be ridiculous, Miles," snapped Tavington, "I won't leave you here to be captured by rebels!"
"Tav, I'm cold," Bordon said. Tavington looked over at his friend who was shuddering, still curled up on his side. He looked around for a blanket and spied someone's bedroll, still open near the fire. The commander grabbed it and threw it over Miles.
Colonel Tavington knew whatever he did, he'd have to work quickly, lest more Rebels come down over the hill.
He needed material for bandages. He left Bordon momentarily to run to his own horse where he rummaged through his saddlebags for one of his shirts. Usually, the officers carried extra shirts with them. He could only find one in his, so he went to Bordon's horse, went through the baggage, and found a second shirt.
As he was foraging for makeshift wound dressings, he contemplated his decision to take Bordon away with him. He was so seriously injured and in great pain. Tavington thought again, thinking about if he did leave him there.
If left behind, it would be double the amount of time to get help to Bordon, considering the trip to the camp, and the trip back with help. That would be with no trouble or obstructions. Obstructions would slow that down even more. Who could predict what would happen to Miles during that time. He could take a turn for the worse—or die. He could be found by rebels and tortured or killed. But what if something happened to Tavington along the way. Then a man, who may have been saved, might die without the messenger to pass the news along for help.
On the other hand, he could take Bordon with him back to Cornwallis' camp, which he deemed not far away. But he was in so much pain and not in good condition to ride. Riding might injure him further.
Tavington quickly decided it was worth the risk to ride back to the camp, sticking with his original decision. They could stay off the road and ride at an easy pace that Bordon could handle, stopping if they needed to for rest.
Back at Bordon's side again, Tavington placed one of the shirts, which he had folded into a compress, on his friend's abdomen. He then placed Miles's hand over the shirt.
"Hold that there," William instructed, "I'll be back straight away."
He took a few steps to his side to the nearest dead Colonial. Tavington dragged his body by the feet back over to Bordon's resting spot. The Colonel then helped his second in command to sit up. Bordon whimpered as he did, feeling that this was the worse pain he'd ever felt from a battle injury. Tavington, holding Bordon by the shoulder with one hand, reached behind him and clumsily pulled the rebel body over and propped Bordon against it.
Colonel Tavington set about wrapping the other shirt around Major Bordon's waist to hold the dressing in place. He kept his ears and eyes open as he did, watching for more rebels. Bordon winced as Tavington tied the binding tightly. He wanted pressure on the wound to stave off as much bleeding as possible.
When he was finished dressing Bordon's wound, he left him again to round up their horses. Usually, they would have gathered all of the horses, Dragoon or rebel, and taken them away with them, for they were a valuable commodity. But William couldn't handle a sick man and a bunch of horses at the same time, so the decision was made to leave them behind. He didn't worry about rummaging the rest of the baggage for paperwork or maps that could fall into Rebel possession because only he and Bordon were carrying any papers of value with them.
He led Bordon's horse over to him. Tavington helped him to stand, and Bordon cried out as he did. Tavington had never seen Bordon in that much pain from injuries—he was as tough as the Colonel. He knew time was imperative now on the ride to the camp. Tavington had no doubt that Bordon would have a better chance at recovery if he could get him back to the surgeon in one piece.
Tavington helped him onto his horse, then mounted his own. They took off, first at a walk, then picking the pace up to a trot. They tested the pace a little faster, and a smooth trot was the most Bordon could take. Even with that, he felt it was jarring his insides apart, and was bringing tears of pain to his eyes intermittently as they rode.
They rode alternately on the road, and sometimes along the road in the woods if he could find paths that paralleled it. The pair stopped for a few minutes at a time, every half hour or so, giving Bordon a chance to recover, and find the stamina to go on. One of those stops, Tavington had to change Bordon's dressings. He was still bleeding so heavily that he had completely bloodied one shirt. Fortunately, William had thought to grab what looked like a fairly clean shirt off of a dead militiaman, who'd been shot in the head and hadn't bled onto it, to use as another dressing.
Looking at the map, Tavington judged they were within miles of the camp. They moved out again, at a slower pace the last leg of the journey as Bordon had weakened. Miles was slumped over his horse, barely having the strength to hang on to the reigns. Tavington encouraged him, saying they were very close to camp.
Finally, after four slow hours, as they emerged from the woods, Tavington saw what he thought were Redcoats. When the wind would blow from that direction, he could hear the faint voice of a fife. Bordon had a hold of the saddle pommel and Tavington held the reins of his friend's horse in his hands, walking slowly into the clearing. They had to cross a field of winter Wheat to get to the edge of the encampment.
In the middle of the field, Bordon slid off his horse and fell to the ground. Tavington jumped down to his friend's aid. William knelt down beside him and pulled Miles into his arms.
"Bordon," he cried, "Don't do this to me now. We're almost to camp!"
There was no response. "Bordon! Bordon!"
William heard British voices shouting from across the field at them. He looked up and could see the figures running toward them, guns and bayonets drawn, ready to attack.
"Miles," he said again, "help is on the way. Miles?"
Bordon babbled some incoherent words.
Then, the pair was surrounded by four Redcoat sentries, all demanding to know who they were.
"I'm Colonel William Tavington of His Majesty's Green Dragoons. And this is my second in command, Major Miles Bordon. He's badly hurt and needs a surgeon now, please! We're the only two left alive from our detachment—ten of my men are dead. We were ambushed this morning. If General O'Hara and General Cornwallis are here, they know us!"
Two of the men ran to the tent area to get help, and the other two stayed with Tavington, kneeling around he and Bordon, asking what happened. Tavington recounted their ordeal.
Then Miles revived. "I'm thirsty," he murmured.
One of the sentries handed his canteen to Tavington, who helped Miles to take a sip from it.
His eyes started to close again. Tavington wasn't about to lose his friend.
"Damn it, Miles, stay with me," he begged. "You'll be on the table before the surgeon in a moment."
Miles groaned.
"Wanted rest, eh?" joked Tavington, looking down on Miles's face, contorted with pain. "You're going to have a long rest and recovery, you are!"
Bordon forced a smile, which told Tavington his friend would be fine.
"Hold on, they're bringing the litter now, I can see it!" Tavington exclaimed to his friend. He continued on with senseless banter to keep Miles alert. "You know, just because you're hurt doesn't mean you can get out of being the bestman at our wedding."
Bordon spoke in a weak voice. "Marry her soon. She's waited long enough."
"I'm planning on it, as soon as I get back from this next battle—if she'll have me," William said. "So, doesn't matter how hurt you are or if you can stand or not. I'll prop you up at the altar if I have to!"
"Not going to let me out of it?" Bordon joked back, his voice sounding even more faint.
"No!"
"Well, I wouldn't miss it for anything," Bordon whispered. His eyelids fluttered, and he passed out again.
Just about that time, the stretcher arrived and scooped him up, carrying him quickly to the hospital tents, where a surgeon was waiting.
The sentries helped William into the camp, trailing slowly behind with the horses. The animals were lead to the pens, and Colonel Tavington made his way into the hospital tent. He worked his way through the tent to where Bordon was.
He got to the table only to find Bordon weakly trying to fight off the surgeon as he touched the injured man's abdomen. William stood next to the table and put his hand on Bordon's forehead to calm him. He moved to the edge of the table and cradled Miles's head in his arms.
"It's alright," he comforted. "They're going to put you back together." Tavington grabbed a bite stick off the surgeon's tray and brought it to Bordon's mouth. Before he could put it in, Bordon spoke.
"William, I've done my best," whispered Miles.
"Yes, you have," William assured.
"He just got the dagger in me before I could kill him."
"I know. You're strong. You'll be fine," Tavington said confidently.
The surgeon motioned for Tavington to leave so they could administer some Laudanum for the pain and repair his wounds.
"You're one of the lucky ones, Bordon," Tavington quipped softly in Miles's ear. "Looks like you're going to get some Laudanum." Only the worst injuries got the painkiller.
With that, Tavington gently pushed the bite stick into Major Bordon's mouth so they could start working on his wounds. William was relieved that Miles was going to get something soon for his pain.
Tavington made his way over to a bed and lay down for a few minutes, waiting for a medic to treat his own wound. He had been so full of adrenaline as it coursed through his body from the events of the morning. It was only now that he realized how tired and hungry he was. His stomach growled as he lay there thinking about getting up. But exhaustion won out and overtook him. He fell fast asleep.
~/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/~
An hour later, a medic woke him saying in a Cockney accent, "You can't sleep here!"
William quickly came out of his sleep and pulled his shirt up, revealing his wound to the man. Within a few minutes, a doctor had seen him and another medic had come to take care of the wound. Tavington sat on the edge of the bed gritting his teeth and shuddering as they cleaned his wound. He tried not to flinch each time the needle went into his skin as his wound was sewn.
Another few minutes passed and the medic was dressing his wound. The Colonel held his shirt up and the man wrapped the gauze tightly about William's torso, pulling it taut to bind the dressing securely. Tavington's body moved with each tug of the bandage, making him wince under his breath.
As the medic was finishing up, tying off the material, Lord General Cornwallis walked in. "You'll be missed tomorrow, Colonel," he remarked in an official tone.
Colonel Tavington turned his head the direction of the voice. He wasn't sure why Cornwallis said what he did. "Missed, my Lord?"
"Your wound," the General replied.
Tavington stood up quickly from the bed just as the dresser finished with him. William took a step toward his superior and insisted, "It's nothing! I am, as ever, ready to serve."
"Very well," conceded Cornwallis in a subdued voice. "Make sure you do."
The general paused an instant, then moved in menacingly within inches from William's face. "I stand on the eve of the greatest victory of my career," stated Cornwallis. "Don't fail me."
Bloody Hell, Tavington thought. Same shit, different day! I know what's coming. I know why he's here. It never ends. I'll be damned if he's going to get away with another reprimand.
Tavington stood up for himself. "My efforts, in no small measure, brought you here!" he asserted defiantly.
"I'll grant you that small measure," Cornwallis patronized, "in spite of your failure to deliver the Ghost to me."
"Thus far," added Tavington, unafraid to correct what he thought was wrong.
General Cornwallis took another step forward, putting himself right into the legion commander's face threateningly. He spoke calmly, softly, and in control. "I will not tolerate a premature charge born of your eagerness for glory!" His warning was stern.
This immediately deflated Tavington's confidence. He wanted to say something, but was speechless. He knew he should speak out again for himself.
"Wait for my order," warned Cornwallis again, speaking slowly and enunciating his own words very clearly, highlighting them with a pause. He turned to leave and continued as he walked out of the tent. "Or you can abandon any hopes of Ohio." He would not hesitate to nullify the deal Tavington had struck with him.
Tavington looked down, dejectedly. He just couldn't understand why Cornwallis cut him down all the time. He was doing his duty to the best of his ability and was continually slapped in the face for it.
But, the reprimands for his ignoring of orders per his initiative he could deal with. William realized he had a bigger problem on his hands. He knew now that Cornwallis blamed him directly for the inability on England's part to capture the Ghost. It was clear to him that his superior thought him incompetent, but also the cause of Benjamin Martin's men causing more carnage and wreaking even more havoc.
William's head began to throb as he thought about this. He pondered how the situation with the Ghost had gone out of control and exactly when it had. Tavington had always had strong reign over various factions of his life and job, and now, everything was in an uproar and he couldn't contain things or bring order and organization back to situations.
Now depressed and frustrated from Cornwallis berating him, he thought he'd pull his spirits up and check on Bordon's progress. As he neared the table where Bordon was, he saw the surgeon cleaning up and a Priest with them. His heart began to pound as he walked at a faster pace to the table. As he got closer, he could hear the Priest.
"God of all consolation, you chose and sent your Son to heal the world. Graciously listen to our prayer of faith. Send the power of the Holy Spirit, the Consoler, into this precious oil." The Priest then made the Sign of the Cross over the holy chrism. "Are you truly sorry for all sins you have committed in the eyes of the Lord and do you wish redemption?"
Bordon, eyes closed, weakly nodded his head and murmured, "Yes."
Tavington had heard those words enough in his lifetime to recognize them. The Priest was administering the Last Rites. William panicked.
"What's this? Why?" questioned Colonel Tavington as he reached the table.
"He's dying," the surgeon answered.
"He can't be," William exclaimed in disbelief.
"I assure you, he is. His wounds are fatal," the doctor replied.
"But he's strong," Tavington cried, still in disbelief. "He's in good health. The wounds didn't look that bad!" William blurted the words out even though he knew better. He understood that war wounds and their severity could sometimes be deceiving.
"The wounds are deep, Colonel, puncturing his spleen and a kidney," said the doctor. "There's nothing more I can do for him." He shook his head, picked up his field surgery kit, and walked on to the next patient.
William clenched his fists as he stood there, not knowing what to do. He wanted to help Bordon. He wanted Miles to live.
On the other side of the tent, Captain Wentworth and Captain Wilkins had heard the news about the attack on the dragoons and that their two commanders had been hurt and were in the hospital tent. They came in looking for them, and raced over to the table where they could see Tavington and a Priest, fearing the worst. They got there to find an ashen Bordon dying on the table, with their distraught leader standing next to him. A medic at the table who had helped with both men filled the two in on the details of the accident and the injuries.
"William," Major Bordon began in a faint and ragged voice, "I really didn't want to die on the battlefield, or from the wounds—"
"No confessions or apologies, now, Bordon," William said in a shaky voice, trying to assuage any fear the dying man had.
"No, Tav," continued Bordon in a frail voice, "I never cared about the glory of it. I just wanted to fight honorably and…..and….bravely."
"You do," Tavington assured his friend. "Always."
Miles groaned, feeling an awful stab of pain in his body. Then he gasped.
"Just….just…rest easy," Tavington's voice faltered, not really knowing what to say. He looked down at his friend, concerned that he was in pain. He looked up at the young medic and the priest with wild desperation in his eyes. "What else can we do for him!"
The young medic officer, who was finished cleaning up and just turning to leave, and the priest, both shook their heads, in a gesture that conveyed that nothing else could be done.
Colonel Tavington's insides were knotted in anguish. He was still in shock that this was happening—and so fast! One moment there was a chance his friend could be saved. The next minute, there was no hope. And now he was losing his life. William just didn't understand.
"I'm not afraid," Miles whispered feebly, "but I'm not ready to go yet. I thought I'd live to be an old man."
The two Captains were surprised to see compassion and sorrow spilling out of their usually firm commander. Tavington gripped Bordon's hand and leaned down close to him.
The Priest could sense an urgency in the situation and that Bordon was slipping away fast. He quickly began to give the final Communion to the dying man.
Wanting to get the Host into Bordon quickly, the priest dispensed with most of the Eucharistic Rite, blessing the Body and Blood silently and quickly. He then held the wine and bread up. "This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the World. Happy are those who are called to his supper."
Tavington instinctively answered. "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." Bordon mouthed the words, too weak to say them.
"The Body of Christ," said the Priest placing a tiny piece of bread on Bordon's tongue, and more on Tavington's. "Amen," both men answered.
"The Blood of Christ," the Priest continued. Tavington supported Miles's head enough to get a sip of wine. William swallowed as well. "Amen," both repeated.
William was becoming frantic. He bent down to speak to his friend.
"Fight this, Miles," he whispered, his voice breaking as he did. "You've got to fight." He knew the words were futile, but they came out of him in desperation.
"Be good to Karen," said Miles. "She deserves it." His voice was weak now, as if he was struggling to talk.
Tavington shook his head, his face contorted in anguish. "I will," he replied.
"Tell Laura I love her," Bordon strained to say, in a whisper. "Tell her I'm sorry."
"I'll tell her," Will assured Miles, swallowing hard to fight back emotion.
Tears ran from the corners of Bordon's eyes, streaming down and disappearing into his strawberry blonde hair. He realized he was dying and felt sorrow for himself. He had been hopeful to see this war through to victory and return to England. He hoped to marry one day and have a family. The terrible pain that he had been in was now starting to dissolve, but his strength had ebbed and he was weak. He felt helpless and wept because he couldn't do anything to save himself.
"Take care of Karen and your child," said Bordon, his voice a dim murmur.
"Yes, I will," Tavington promised, even though he knew not what would become of him and Karen. His eyes were glazing over with tears.
Tavington's throat hurt as he swallowed hard to fight back the tears, not wanting to break down in front of his men, and not wanting Bordon's last moments to be filled with his own despair.
"Where's my….Where's…whe….," Bordon's voice was fading.
Tavington knew he wanted his Rosary beads. He reached into the pocket of Miles's uniform jacket, hanging over a chair next to the table, and retrieved them. He pushed the crucifix into his friend's hand and clasped his weak fingers around it for him.
"Here's your cross," Tavington assured him, closing his fist around it.
"Major Bordon," the Priest began, leaning down to the dying man, "Please try to respond, if you can."
There was no acknowledgement from him.
Tavington spoke up. "I'll answer for him….if he can't." William still clasped Bordon's hand, and stroked his forehead with the other. He had always known there was a chance that they'd get killed in battle, but he thought of both of them as strong men and fierce warriors; that they would not be the ones to die during fighting. William never thought that he'd see a close friend die. Maybe some of his men, but not Bordon.
"Through this Holy anointing," began the priest, "may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit." He then made the sign of the Cross on Bordon's forehead with a small amount of oil on the tip of his thumb.
"Amen," William responded as this was done.
The Priest continued and blessed the dying Major's hands with the chrism."May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up."
"Amen," William repeated, his voice colored with defeat and regret.
The priest continued on blessing Bordon's eyes, ears, nostrils, lips and feet, anointing each site with the holy oil. A tiny and barely noticeable shiver came from Miles's body as the Priest finished up.
After the Last Rites were concluded, the men stood there quietly as Bordon slipped away peacefully. A medic took Bordon's pulse and listened for his breathing—there was none.
The young medic spoke up to the trio. "I'm sorry. He's gone now."
"My God," Tavington moaned weakly and in disbelief. His head dropped down onto the bed, where he buried his face from the others, as he began to cry. But, within a few seconds, he remembered his men standing there, took a deep breath and composed himself as best as he could.
William placed Bordon's hands upon his chest, his left one on the bottom, his right one, still in a fist clasping the Rosary, on top. He gently pulled the Crucifix out of his fist and rearranged it in his hand, so that the beads were entwined around his fist and palm and the cross was laying on top of the fist. He laid his fist on top of his left hand.
"May the Lord forgive you by His most loving mercy whatever sins you have committed. May Angels accompany you to your rest. Amen." With this the Priest bid farewell to the saddened officers, reminding them to call on him if needed. Then he left to attend to another soldier.
Wilkins said nothing, saluted the fallen officer, and left. Captain Wentworth, who had greatly admired Major Bordon and who had considered him his mentor, just stood looking down at him, his face twisted into a look of disbelief. Wentworth reached his hand out and grasped Bordon's wrist and squeezed it. His eyes glazed over with sorrow and tears, but he was speechless. He lingered there in silence for another moment, looking at his dead commander. Then the young Captain turned slowly and walked away, leaving Tavington alone with his closest friend.
Tavington's eyes welled up with tears again. He closed them tight, which forced the teardrops to roll down his cheeks.
Still looking at the silent Bordon, Colonel Tavington opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He wiped his tears away with his hand, and continued to sit quietly with his friend and second in command for a few more moments.
The Colonel was in utter shock. He couldn't understand what went wrong or why Bordon died. Tavington thought the doctors could help him. His eyes were stinging again with more tears.
After another moment, he again wiped his tears away with his hand as he sighed. Colonel Tavington stood up, then genuflected deeply on his knee at the side of the table, as a Catholic would bow in front of a Bishop. He rose again and made the Sign of the Cross upon himself as he looked at Bordon.
Tavington put his hand on the head of his dead friend and stroked back his strawberry blonde hair. He then leaned down and kissed Bordon's forehead. "Sleep in Heaven, Miles, " he whispered.
With those words, he departed and quickly found the commander's tent assigned to him. Once inside his quarters, he sat down on his cot, put his head into his hands, and wept uncontrollably for grief over his slain friend. As he did, his heart broke for love of his friend, who he had not always treated well. And he longed for Karen, wanting her there with him, wishing to be in her arms, desiring her comfort. He pined for her own unique way of making him feel protected and cared for. It was all in the way that she loved him. This deep need for her now only made his grief worse.
~/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/~
After an hour or so, Tavington, alone in his tent with his grief, had tried to write a letter to Bordon's family. He heard subdued voices outside the canvas.
"Colonel Tavington," an unfamiliar voice called out.
William chose to ignore the call and dipped his pen in the inkwell. He was having difficulty knowing what to write.
"Colonel?" the voice asked again.
"Go away!" growled William. He put the pen back in the ink and rested his forehead in his hand. His head and neck both ached, the result of too much stress and tension to stomach in one day.
In a moment, the voice called into the tent again. "Colonel Tavington, it's Captain Wentworth. May I come in for a moment?"
"Yes," answered William with a defeated sigh. His mind had been so preoccupied that he hadn't readily recognized his third officer's voice.
Wentworth entered, padding softly over to his commander's desk.
"Colonel," he began softly, but was quickly cut off.
"I can't receive anyone now. I'm not even thinking straight," he explained in an irritated voice. William then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
"I understand, Sir," replied the Captain. But, that was not the reason he had entered the tent.
Wentworth was silent for a moment, not sure how the Colonel might react to what he had to tell him. He hesitated and wondered how to broach the subject. The Captain thought it was best just to say it outright.
"Um, they're ready to bury him, Sir," Wentworth announced in a low and sad voice.
Tavington heaved a sigh as his head dropped down to his chest. Captain Wentworth took a step forward and squeezed the shoulder of his commanding officer in a comforting gesture.
"Alright," Tavington said without a fight in a deeply dejected voice. "Thank you. I'll be there momentarily."
Captain Wentworth was still feeling very empty inside and trying to find a way to carry on with his newfound duties of leadership. He said nothing, turned, and left.
As he neared the tent opening, Tavington called after him.
"Captain," William called.
"Sir?"
Tavington got up and joined the young Captain at the door of the tent.
"I'm brevetting you to the rank of Major," he stated. "Lieutenant Kidwell has also been given the commission of Captain."
"Thank you, commander," Wentworth replied without much enthusiasm.
"I've written the paperwork already and will submit it to General O'Hara today," he told the new major. "I'm sure there won't be a problem with it."
Young Wentworth nodded his head silently, in agreement.
"You're second in command now," Tavington announced blandly.
"I know Sir," Wentworth acknowledged in a tone of disappointment. "I didn't want it this way." He looked down at the ground as he felt tears sting his eyes.
"I didn't either," Tavington understandingly agreed. He put his hand on Captain Wentworth's shoulder. "Not like this." William shook his head and sighed, still unable to fathom the events of the day.
Tavington walked woefully over to the officer's gravesites, which were near a field and grove of trees. Captains Wilkins and Wentworth were there already with the priest when the colonel joined them. William was disheveled, still wearing his dirt and bloodstained uniform from the attack earlier that day. His ruffled shirt was unbuttoned and hung loose, not tucked into his breeches. The commander's hair was still down, long and loose about his shoulders, and stubble was over his jaw. The exhausted and grief stricken officer hadn't given a thought about his appearance.
Brigadier General Charles O'Hara and General Lord Charles Cornwallis joined the Dragoons at Bordon's grave giving the legion their condolences. All the men assembled there noticed Tavington's extreme grief. The dragoon leader had lost soldiers before, but was always able to stay focused military duties and matters at while keeping his emotions over death in check. They all thought he acted differently over this death, taking it hard and letting all emotion show for the world.
O'Hara noted dark circles under the Colonel's eyes and how drawn and tired his face looked. In the back of his mind, he contemplated going ahead and giving Tavington the furlough he'd requested earlier just to give the man some relief from his command. The general didn't know that Lord Cornwallis had just tried to offer him release from the battle due to injuries only two hours ago, and that Tav had refused.
More officers and Dragoons filtered to the grave. Tavington stayed next to the coffin , as if guarding his friend. One of the last to join the assembly of about fifty men was Colonel Banastre Tarleton. Some of his own Dragoons had beat him there as he had been tied up in the hospital tent checking on some of his own injured from another unrelated skirmish.
He saluted the Generals, greeted Wentworth and Wilkins, and shook hands with the Priest. Banastre then made his way to the coffin, where Tavington stood forlorn. He and Tavington embraced.
"I just got into camp and heard the news. I can't believe it's true," Ban remarked in disbelief.
"Thank you for coming, Ban," William said.
Tarleton looked into the coffin and shook his head. For a moment, he stood speechless, just looking at the fallen Bordon.
"Oh God," he sighed, still standing with Tavington. "It seems like it was yesterday when we met back in England."
Both men were silent for a moment. Ban's braveness in the face of tragedy faltered as he felt a sick feeling come over him.
"It was a lifetime ago," Tavington noted.
"He'll be missed sorely," Colonel Tarleton stated in a lost voice. His eyes began to mist over with tears. He moved away from Bordon's coffin and dabbed at his eyes with his gloved hand. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look at the Priest, who was raising his book to commence the Burial Rites. Ban fought the urge to look back at Bordon, still in abject disbelief that he was dead.
After a few moments, the Rite of Interment was finished and the Priest invited all present up to the coffin for a moment of last respect to their fallen comrade. Tavington, still standing close, reached into the coffin and smoothed his friend's hair back, then put his hand on his wrist and squeezed it. It unnerved him how cold Bordon felt.
Then, to the surprise of everyone, Tavington suddenly turned on his heel and walked away, numbly. Wilkins and Wentworth thought he would be the last to leave, staying from the moment the lid would be closed until the last clump of dirt would be laid.
Colonel Tarleton started after him. "Tav," he called after him. "Tav!"
William never heard him above the din in his mind. He had no desire to see the lid nailed shut on his friend, or to see him placed into the ground.
"Let him go, Colonel Tarleton," said O'Hara. "He needs to be alone."
So, mid afternoon, January 16, 1781, Major Miles Patrick Anthony Bordon was laid to rest in a quiet field in South Carolina after 31 years of life. And Colonel William Tavington walked away, leaving his friend's body there.
William no longer felt any emotion; he was a stone. For the moment, he cared about nothing. The two people he loved the most were gone from his life: Karen, alienated and lost to him, and Bordon, passed on very unexpectedly.
Tavington felt nothing. He was as dead inside as Bordon was.
