Chapter 101 - Kings Mountain:

7th October - Kings Mountain, North Carolina

In North Carolina, Major Patrick Ferguson lay awake on his blankets, with his sleeping Virginia's twined around his body. Ferguson was trying to estimate how far away reinforcement must be by now. Ferguson was en-route to Cornwallis and the British forces at Charlotte; it was not far, Cornwallis must have received the first of Ferguson's missives by now. All Cornwallis needed to do was send a few detachments to join Ferguson on the road and escort him safely into Charlotte. He lay there, calculating how soon the General would have sent these reinforcements, and how many miles a horse could travel in a day. He was certain that the worst scenario was that he would encounter Cornwallis' reinforcements on the road late the following afternoon.

The help was close - it must be. Major Ferguson was certain of it. If he had not have been, he would not have risked making camp the previous evening. He would have pushed his men through the night, storm or no storm, toward the safety of the British forces at Charlotte. He had reasoned that, if he was not willing to shift his force during such a storm in the darkness of night, then his pursuing enemy would not be willing to shift theirs either.

This decision showed how little Ferguson understood of his enemy. For as he lay awake listening to the deafening torrent driving against the canvas roof above, his enemy was marching directly for him.

He had misjudged them. Their resolve, and their hatred of the British. Their yearning toward independence. Their fury and indignation, that he had threatened them and their families with fire and the sword. The fellows who were ignoring the discomfort and dangers of the storm as they marched toward Patrick Ferguson, were of Scottish and Irish descent and not a single one had forgotten the persecution they had suffered at the hands of the British in their native Countries, before their migration to America. Some were first generation Americans, and the memories were vivid. But even those who were second and third generation remembered. It was in their blood, the fire and the hatred, as passed down to them by their forefathers.

Colonel Shelby demanded much from his men, and they gave it to him willingly. Rain poured from tricorn and great cloak. Boots slipped in the mud. They were almost blind, travelling in the darkness of night, but still their legs ate the intervening distance between themselves and Ferguson's camp. The night was so wild, that only the mad would be out in it. The mad, and the Over Mountain men.

Benjamin Martin drove his militia right along with Shelby. At some point, after a brief discussion, the nine hundred strong force broke into three units in order to approach Ferguson's camp from three different directions. Daylight broke and still the storm raged. By midday, the storm had stopped but it was too late for Major Patrick Ferguson. The Patriot forces had reached Kings Mountain, and British reinforcement had not. Ferguson had no escape and the Patriots quickly found the place where the Major had unwisely stopped to rest his men the night before.

A mistake he would regret, Colonel Benjamin Martin knew. If the fellow lived to be able to regret it. If the Major had continued on through the deluge as Benjamin and Shelby had, he and his force could have won free to Charlotte by now. Instead, they were holed up in the middle of the forest, in the centre of the large clearing which was quickly becoming surrounded by the Patriot forces, and their camp site would soon become their graveyard.

Dark clouds hung over the battlefield, threatening rain but holding for now. The day was grey, dark, stunk of peril, fear, and the acrid tang of gun powder.

"Fire!" Benjamin screamed again and fifty muskets clapped all at once as balls exploded from the barrels. Smoke puffed in the air all around them. Shelby was screaming an order, Benjamin could hear him somewhere to the right. "Reload!" Benjamin bellowed and his fifty began pulling balls and shoving them down the barrels, priming their weapons. Gunpowder was poured onto the pan. "Fire!" He commanded again, and again, he was surrounded by the claps and smoke.

Beyond the smoke, in the centre of the melee; men on horseback and others sheltered by pickets, answered their fire. A ball whizzed by Benjamin's head. The reminder that this battle meant death, caused him to fret for his sons. He quickly searched for Thomas, to make certain the lad had survived the battle thus far. Thomas was mounted further back, his rifle levelled. He'd shot down his fair share of Tory's in the last few moments. Benjamin could not have been more proud, nor more worried. His child, for heaven's sake. Thomas could be dead before this was over! He wished fervently that he had not come to Shelby's aid. What the devil had he been thinking? Had he been so bored in South Carolina, that he'd gone looking for entertainment elsewhere? Stupid fool of a man. He shoved the condemning thoughts away and searched amongst the enemy in the clearing. They all wore the same clothes of either homespun or tartan shirts, none wore the typical British Redcoat. He had no way of divining regulars from militia, or Officers from soldiers, or which of them Major Ferguson was, or where. Someone was blowing a whistle someplace close by, a furious high pitched wail that reached the rebels ears. The clash of swords, the clap of rifles, the screaming of horses, and still that whistle persisted.

"Charge!" Shelby shouted and Benjamin, cursing, took up the command. His men, both on foot and on horseback, surged forward. Mark Putman was one of the first to burst forward, the first to clash with the Torys. His face was grim as he laid waste all about him with tomahawk and short sword, just as Benjamin had taught him. Fired with fury and frustration that his daughter was forced into a marriage with Major Bordon, Mark seemed hell bent on destroying as many British as he possibly could. Blood lust drove him to a berserkers rage. It was as though each Tory he encountered was wearing Bordon's face, for all the violence and wrath Mark put behind each blow. Far calmer than the rage filled Mark, Benjamin pulled his tomahawk free of its loop and raced into the throng, slashing at Torys all around him. Blood dripped from the blade but he raced on, ignoring the gore and the devastation he left in his wake. There was no malice, no anger. It was a job that needed doing. His boot slammed into something soft and he glanced down to see a woman sprawled there in the bracken, her glazed eyes open, her face slack in death. Forcing down pity, he stepped over her. Another woman on horseback was screaming someplace close by.

"Let her through!" Shelby shouted and those men there stopped firing, opening a path for the lass. The woman, sobbing incoherently, galloped on through. She thought she could pass by unmolested, but soon realised her error when Shelby grabbed the bridle and pulled the horse to a stop. Benjamin stood at his side, tense. He never allowed his men to indulge in the attacking of women, they were not allowed to rape or pillage. But the command was not his, it was Shelby's. What did he want with the girl? He was pulling her off her horse, and she could barely breathe from terror.

"Where is Ferguson!" Shelby shouted down into her face. The girl shook her head, tears streaming. Shelby shouted at her again and again, she refused to speak. "You see her over there?" Using his pistol as a pointer, Shelby indicated the body laying in the dirt. "Do you think I won't kill a woman?" He ground out. "It's your life for his. Where is he?"

The girl, spluttering and sobbing, finally relented. "Red hair. White frilled shirt," she stammered. "Red stripes."

Shelby released her and she stumbled away. "Let her pass!" He yelled even as he began searching for Ferguson in the press. "There, I've got you now, yeh bastard," Shelby smiled and pointed his pistol at the fellow he'd spied, the fellow with bright red hair, white frilled shirt and red stripes… he pulled back the hammer, the ball flew and the red haired fellow dropped from the saddle. The Major's crazed horse bolted toward them, dragging Ferguson's body along the sodden ground. The Major's foot was stuck in the stirrup and as the horse drew nearer, other enraged militia began firing at the Officers body. It was a gory scene, one Benjamin did not approve, and he kept his own flintlock lowered.

Soon later, the firing began to die down. Major Ferguson had fallen; the Tories were either in retreat by now or being rounded up and captured. Although it was far from silent in the woods, the absence of the constant rifle fire was deafening. Benjamin's ears still rung now, and probably would for the rest of the day. Abandoning Shelby, Benjamin went in search of his sons; he needed to ensure they were both well. Soon later, he spied Gabriel on his mount riding slowly amongst the trees, herding Tory prisoners like cattle. Captives. They'd have quite a few of those from this little skirmish. Gabriel was fine, and so he continued on, searching for Thomas. Who was also alive and unwounded, though he was far from fine.

"You mustn't, uncle!" the youth was shouting and trying to push Mark away from a man laying prone on the ground. "He's down, he's surrendered! You can't kill him!"

"The hell I can't!" Mark screamed, trying to shove the boy off of him. Thomas persisted, the two pushed and pulled at one another as the wounded Tory stared up them both with eyes glazed from pain and fear both.

"What's this?" Benjamin asked, voice tight. He pushed through his watching men and strode up to the pair.

"Uncle Mark has gone mad!" Thomas whirled to face his father, inadvertently releasing Mark; who dashed forward, short sword raised high. Before Benjamin could bark the command to stop Mark, Watson darted in and shoved Mark back.

"Damn and blast it!" Mark screamed pure frustration and venom at Nicholas Watson. "He's a god dammed tory, let me bloody go!"

"Save it for Bordon and Tavington, Mark," Benjamin snapped. "Get a bloody hold of yourself." Mark gave him a mutinous glare and Benjamin's voice snapped out again, "that's an order!"

Finally, Mark was quelled. He drew several long, slow breaths, his face dark and wrathful.

A great cry went up deep in the woods and the men raced toward the noise. Expecting to find a late attack, they were stunned to find the Over Mountain men, gleefully gloating the capture of Ferguson's body. At least five of them stood over the bullet riddled Scotsman, all of them with their cocks hanging out from their breeches as they pissed on the poor fellow's body. Benjamin shook his head and turned his back on the scene.

"Gather the men," he commanded Billings. "We ride out now."

Striding away, he found his horse wandering through the trees, and without a backward glance, he mounted and rode away.

11th October 1780 - Ferguson Plantation, South Carolina

The hall was packed, high ranking Officers taking up every single seat at the table in O'Hara's council chamber, while yet more Officers lined the walls. O'Hara had delivered the dreadful news, leaving his subalterns reeling. From his position at the head of the table, as the General glanced at them, he saw their discouragement. He was looking rather tight around the eyes himself.

To his left, and to his right, sat Colonel Tarleton and Colonel Tavington. For a brief moment, the astonished Officers met one another's eyes across the table, the news was such that for that brief flash, they both forgot the animosity between them. The moment passed quickly and both Officers looked away again. Sitting beside William was Major Bordon, still weak though he was recovering. Bordon shifted on his chair, agitated.

"The way into North Carolina is closed to us," O'Hara was saying. "The Over Mountain men, hold it securely. Cornwallis has decamped his force at Charlotte and has rushed down from North Carolina, back into South Carolina. The reason being, his men are still very ill, he barely had no tents for them and very little rum, the weather has been horrendous, and his forces were exposed, for the rebel militia had cut him off from the rest of us. Having no choice but to do otherwise, he has returned to Winnsboro. We suffered a devastating defeat - we lost nearly one thousand men." He glanced around the room, letting the gravity of this statement settle upon them all. "One. Thousand." He repeated. "With sickness sweeping through our Battalions, we have no answer for it. The rebel militia have closed off all possible advancement into North Carolina for the foreseeable future. Cornwallis has decided that we shall winter here, in the south. We shall recoup our strength. It is said that the winter months are the best cure for the fevers assailing our ranks. In a few short months, they shall be a thing of the past - we will recover, in health, strength, and determination. And we shall deal these rebels a mighty blow!"

Instead of the 'huzzah' he was hoping for, there was a general grumbling around the chamber, for the defeat was devastating and had worked to demoralise them all.

Major Ferguson was dead, many of his men were killed and taken prisoner. The Loyalist militia force which had been riding with him, was decimated. Almost three hundred of their number, killed. Almost seven hundred, taken prisoner. The numbers were staggering. The wounded and stragglers had been filing into British camps all across the country. And there were still other Loyalists out there, who had simply deserted. Perhaps they were still running, several days after the battle. In a single hour, the Major's force had been bought to its knees, and then broken completely. Perhaps those Loyalist deserters, who had been filled with fire at the beginning of the campaign, would return to their homes and try to live a quiet life. William was certain about one thing; after such a slaughter, those men would not be roused to fight again.

"This is a disaster," Banastre whispered, wide eyed. "An utter disaster."

Bordon nodded gravely. After two weeks of being bed ridden, he'd finally felt well enough these last two days, to return to his duties. But with news of this sort awaiting him, all he wanted to do was repair to his bed and stay there. Others in the council chamber clearly felt the same, Bordon wasn't the only one nodding agreement to Banastre Tarleton's sentiment.

"It's a blow, to be sure," O'Hara said, voice crisp. That was putting it lightly. But his men were becoming despondent and it was time to raise their spirits. Low moral was one of the main causes for failure in any battalion and it was one of his duties, to ensure his Aides and Officers did not become morose. "Fate was certainly not on our side. Not all is lost, however. Delayed, but not lost. North Carolina shall be ours and then it will be on to Virginia. We shall conquer America and bring His Majesties subjects back into the fold. For now, we shall continue our campaign against the filthy rebels that still plague the South. I've heard reports of Benjamin Martin's involvement in the battle," his voice hardened and he deliberately kept his eyes away from Tavington, Colonel Martin's son in law. "I shall take great enjoyment in that man's capture."

The stories which had reached O'Hara of late had been worrying; stories of Martin's prowess in battle, his ruthlessness and his very clever tricks and snares. The General had seen brave, stalwart Officers go a little white around the mouth when they spoke of 'The Ghost'. Soon, his notoriety would be such that fully grown men would throw down their weapons and run from their positions, terrified, if they learned The Ghost was about to descend upon them. O'Hara needed to denounce the man's growing reputation and remind them all that Colonel Martin was a man like any other and as such, could be defeated with ease.

"I doubt half the rumours are true. I suspect that the Patriots of South Carolina are exaggerating Martin's involvement in order to swell his already over bloated reputation," he said.

"I seriously doubt he killed fifteen men with his bare hands," Tavington scoffed under his breath. That was one of the stories which had reached them, of a man as tall as a giant and resembling something more like a minotaur than an ordinary being. This behemoth had torn through Ferguson's ranks, tearing the heads from the bodies of British soldiers as though they were nothing but playthings. The things people believed...

The Major snorted agreement.

"Nor is he such a devastatingly accurate shot, that he was able to fire once and kill three men with the same ball," Bordon sniggered. "Martin's idiot countrymen believe him to be Our Lord Almighty made flesh," he laughed aloud, then said, "Not only is he a minotaur and the best marksman alive, but it seems he is a wizard also. For there was one fool who claimed of Martin that, with a wave of his hands, our own Kings soldiers fell to Martin's knees, right there in the dirt. Can you imagine? Good Kings soldiers, turning their allegiance to Martin for a mere wave of his hand." While most remained silent, a few of the Officers laughed at this, including Tavington and Tarleton.

"That's 'lobsterback bastards', if you don't mind," Banastre said to Bordon with a grin.

"Ah, yes, forgive me," Bordon slapped his forehead. "With one wave of his hand, the great Patriot wizard Colonel Benjamin Martin waved his most magnificent and powerful hand and one hundred lobsterback bastards fell immediately to their knees and -"

"Turned their allegiance to the 'Most Wonderous and Glorious Cause for Freedom'," Banastre cried out. More Officers joined in the laughter this time. All around the chamber, eyes were becoming lighter, the fear seemed to be fading as amusement chased it away. Not a few of those fellows had been believing the impossible, that perhaps Martin was some powerful being, not entirely human. Still others took heart in the words in another ways, as amusement chased away despondency. O'Hara had been about to call the meeting to order, for it was unseemly and such antics could quickly get out of hand, especially where Colonel Tarleton was concerned. But glancing at those smiling and laughing Officers, he decided to let Tarleton's and Bordon's amusing diatribe do what it would to restore the Officers spirits.

"Ah yes, I do like that. These peasants would fall for that one," Bordon lifted his chin, readying for a speech of his own. "One hundred of His Majesties own Lobsterback bastards, falling to their knees in answer to the Ghost's call, for his is the hand of God! It was a miracle to behold! The Ghost shot fire from his eyes, and canons from his arse!"

"Canons from his arse!" Banastre wheezed, holding his ribs.

"If His Majesties own can turn their allegiance and follow the Ghost, so Sir can you!" Bordon pointed at Banastre, as though he were recruiting this would be 'back country frontiersman'. Always the consummate actor, Banastre recovered quickly and assumed a slack jawed expression.

"Ah, me, Sir?" He said, pointing an unsteady finger at himself and making his voice high and simple sounding. "But I, Sir, cain't even read!" He paused as laughter rebounded from the walls, Officers slapping their thighs and nudging one another. When they fell silent, Banastre continued, "I cain't even piss straight!" More laughter, Banastre had to shout over them to be heard, "My da always tells me, 'boy!' he says, 'Stop pissing all over the floor like! Yeh gettin' it all over yeh trousers! Piss in that there pot, would yeh? And ya know, I just cain't do it! Can yeh teach me how to piss straight? Huh Mr. Martin Ghost Sir? Will yeh help me make my da proud?"

Even O'Hara laughed along with the rest of them. Tarleton kept up his slack jaw expression, he even weaved dangerously in his chair, somehow managing to make his eyes seem vacant, devoid of anything resembling sense.

"I end up getting me piss all down me buckskins!" He shouted, as Officer's wiped tears of mirth from their eyes.

"Better put rifles in all their hands after all then," Bordon said, chuckling. "If none of them can piss straight, I doubt they can shoot straight. The damned fools will shoot each other, they'll do our work for us!"

O'Hara let the joviality continue, for this was exactly what his Officers had needed to lift their spirits. At length, he called the meeting to order to continue to plan and discuss what they could expect next.

11th October 1780 - Henrietta Rutledge's, South Carolina

The last time Henrietta Rutledge had seen Thomas Martin, he'd come to warn General Burwell of Banastre Tarleton's approach. She shivered, hoping that his sudden arrival did not portend another British invasion of her home. Lord, Thomas Martin, he was like a changed boy. No, a man. He was definitely a man now, as tall as his brother, Gabriel. She cast her eyes away from the two brothers. Her little boy would never reach manhood now… She sniffled, the grief of her loss was still too near.

"The house isn't being watched, if that's what you're asking," Henrietta answered Benjamin's question. She sat in the weak sunlight, drinking a glass of cordial. Benjamin, Gabriel, Thomas and Mark Putman were taking up seats around her parlour, while yet more stood sentry at various points on her property. She was also introduced to Nicholas Watson, a British Officer turned Patriot. He stood at the window, seemingly alert, as if worried his old comrades might come by.

Henrietta tried to avoid making eye contact with Mark Putman, for while Benjamin Martin still had her respect, her cousin by marriage most certainly did not. She was relieved to know the fellow was alive after all, but considering the things her cousin Christopher Middleton had revealed in his letter, Henrietta was most distinctly uncomfortable in the man's presence. Allowing for his wife and daughter to bed British Officers, even in the name of gathering information for the Patriot Cause, was repugnant to her. And that Mage and Cilla - Henrietta's own cousins! - would be willing to do it. And now his daughter was pregnant and had been forced to marry Bordon, because of it. She wondered if Benjamin knew. For the same reason Christopher Middleton had revealed the truth to her, Henrietta wondered if she should take Benjamin aside and reveal the same to him. Perhaps he would not be so inclined to associate with Mr. Putman, if he knew what use the man had put his wife and daughter to.

The again, the Martin family was already caught up in their own scandal, perhaps they should not be burdened with more? Besides, Christopher revealed what he had in confidence, and Henrietta was not one to engage in gossip. She would need to think on it, there was time to decide yet. Avoiding Mark Putman's gaze, Henrietta looked to Thomas again, who sat so proudly beside Gabriel Martin.

"You've grown," she smiled at the youth. "And I don't just mean you're taller. You've grown… Matured. That uniform suits you well."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rutledge! I think so too!" Thomas said, sitting up straighter under her approving gaze. "It was about time papa let me join!"

"Well, I hope you are doing both Colonel Martin and the uniform proud," she said, thinking that Mr. Putman certainly was not.

"I'm trying," Thomas preened. Henrietta shared a knowing smile with Benjamin.

"Have you been forced to entertain any more British?" Benjamin asked her.

"On occasion. If there's a detachment passing and if they need shelter for the night, they use my home as if it belonged to them," a hard edge entered her voice. "But for the most part, I am left alone here."

"I'm pleased to hear it," Benjamin said.

"Cousin, I need to make contact with Cilla," Mark said and Henrietta shuddered to hear him address her as such. They were not blood related - only through marriage, thank goodness. But even that was too close for her now, she wished they could not even claim that connection any longer. "She needs to know her papa is still alive, the poor girl has been tormented with the belief of my death for long enough. I can't extricate her from Fresh Water cleanly or easily. But I'll not leave her grieving for another minute."

"I do not know how I am supposed to help you with that," Henrietta said at the exact same time Benjamin said, "risky, revealing that."

"Not your choice to make," Mark said shortly to Benjamin. Henrietta's eyes grew wide as she stared at Mark Putman, shocked by his rude, snappish tone. "If I can get a letter in to her, perhaps she'll be able to get one out. And maybe she knows where Mage is."

Henrietta twisted her lips. Just fleetingly, before smoothing her expression. She drew a deep breath, then said, "Mrs. Putman." - Like hell would she call Mage cousin now, even if she was blood kin. - "Has reached Gullah and is with Mrs. Selton," Henrietta said and Mark whirled, looking shocked.

"How did she come to be there? Did you speak to her yourself? Is she well?" Mark asked, thirsting for news.

Henrietta shifted with discomfort, uncertain how much she should reveal. Confront him for putting her cousin in Bordon's bed? Two cousins, counting Cilla. Did Mr. Putman care so little for the Middleton name? Should she tell him that Mage had been living with Christopher until he learned of her affair with Bordon, when he set her out of his house and sent her on her way? Christopher had done the right thing. If Putman knew, then he might take exception to Christopher's decision, it might cause trouble for her cousin. Mage was his sister, and turning her out might earn Mark Putman's resentment.

She spoke carefully, deciding it was not her place to reveal what Christopher asked her to keep silent. She still might reveal it to Benjamin if she felt the need, but she most certainly wouldn't tell Mark. If Mark wanted answers, he would just have to go and see Christopher. And perhaps apologise, for putting two Middleton daughters to such awful use. Not that they hadn't been willing, according to Christopher. Henrietta did not like to consider that, however. It made her feel as though her entire blood line were somehow dirtied.

"Yes, Mr. Putman," Henrietta began. There would be no more of that cousin rot, not now. "I have spoken to Mrs. Putman. As for where she is, young Mr. Martin, Nathan that is - escorted her to Gullah. She is well enough but she's grieving you - you'll have to let her know you're alive. She told me she went to Mrs. Selton at Drakespar only to find that burned to the ground and Mrs. Selton gone. And she couldn't go to Fresh Water because of the fort. So she came here for my help." Would that she hadn't, considering. "Mrs. Putman was still quite determined to see your sister, and so I sent word out to discover where Mrs. Selton is, for I knew she was no longer at Fresh Water. Soon after, Nathan Martin and his companions arrived. She left with young Nathan, who escorted her to Gullah."

And if you want to know anything more, you'll have to ask your wife or Christopher, Henrietta said, finding the entire subject distasteful.

"Thank God," Mark breathed and Henrietta was surprised to see real concern in Mark's face. How could a man who clearly loved his wife and daughter, set them to the task of whoring for information? Cilla was pregnant and had to marry Bordon so she would not bear a bastard! She shook her head, then buried her stunned surprise in the act of taking a long sip from her glass.

"How did she get out of the city?" Mark asked, firing questions at Henrietta, who begged off giving the answers by pleading ignorance. And still, those questions came. Who escorted her? Why did she leave Christopher's? Was Cilla with her? - That, Henrietta could answer, she told Mark that Mage left Cilla behind when she left Christopher's. "But why?" Mark said, "it doesn't make sense. Why would she leave Cilla? And if Cilla stayed with Christopher, how on God's green earth did she come to be married to that Lobsterback bastard?"

Now that, Henrietta was most certainly not up to answering. It made her feel faint, even considering doing so. 'Cilla, my own cousin, fell pregnant from the union you - her own father - encouraged. Christopher, wanting nothing to do with any of it and rightly so, took her to Camden and left Cilla and Bordon no choice but to do what they could to salvage their reputations and prevent the child from being born a bastard.' Instead, she shook her head, pretending that she did not know.

"All I can tell you -" all I am willing to tell you - "is that your wife is alive and well at Gullah and that your daughter is alive and well at Fresh Water. How they came to be there, you will have to ask them."

"Something bad must have happened. Why should she leave Christopher's, and leave Cilla behind?" He asked, trying to make sense of it. "Unless… did Mage leave before or after this abomination they are calling marriage?"

Henrietta arched an eyebrow. "Your wife left her brother's at least a month before Miss Putman married Major Bordon."

"Oh," Mark frowned and returned to the puzzle at hand. He seemed to be thinking hard, then realisation transformed his face. "Celeste! She must have been making Mage feel so uncomfortable that she decided to go and live with Charlotte, instead! We were engaged once, long, long ago. But Celeste's family made her marry higher - I was not good enough for them, apparently."

Did that prove untrue? Henrietta thought. Were they wrong? It might have been Celeste, instead of Mage, that you put in Bordon's bed. Frankly, as it turns out, you weren't good enough for the Middleton's either. Celeste's family most certainly made the right decision for her.

"Celeste and I were in love back then. I was heartbroken when we couldn't marry. But Mage… when we married, I found out what love truly is. What I felt for Celeste pales when compared to what I feel for Mage," he looked on the verge of tears. "She turned my head, my wife did," he managed a smile. "I don't think Celeste ever stopped loving me, though."

It would have been a nice enough story, had Henrietta not known that Mark had encouraged the wife he loved into the arms of another man. Henrietta's Edward loved her, as deeply as any husband had ever loved a wife, she was certain. And he would never, ever, compromise her virtue for the sake of the Patriot Cause.

"Celeste has always been jealous of Mage. If she was awful enough… Yes, that could have sent Mage fleeing her brother's Plantation for my sister's. But to leave Cilla behind… That's what I don't understand," Mark said.

Henrietta could have explained to him, but she was not going to.

"Perhaps relations between Mrs. Middleton and Mage were sore enough for Mage to chance the roads for herself, but not for Cilla," Benjamin mused. "She must have known how dangerous it would be, perhaps Mage left Cilla where she was safe, if she was not being treated as poorly as Mage was, there would have been no reason to move her. Or perhaps she intended to reach Drakespar, and then summon me to collect Cilla and be her escort, keep her safe… You just don't know. And you won't until you go to Gullah. Which, I think, is precisely what you should do now. Mage doesn't know you're alive, it's time to end her grief."

"Yes. The only people I can get answers from are Mage, Cilla and Christopher," Mark said, feeling utterly helpless. "Christopher is all the way up past Camden. To reach him I would have to cross enemy lines several times, the risk of being caught is far too great. Cilla is just there at Fresh Water but she might as well be on the moon for all I can reach her. I'll need to go to Gullah," he said to Benjamin, who was nodding. "I need to talk to Mage. And I need to know how in the world did Cilla come to be married to Bordon. But no, Mage won't have the answer to that, will she? She left well before this abortion of a marriage." He thought furiously for a moment, then said, "No, I'll make contact with one of my men at Fresh Water, I'll give someone a letter for Cilla. Even if I go see Mage this very moment, she won't be able to tell me about Cilla and her marriage," he spat, furious. "I'll write to Cilla - she'll tell me."

Benjamin was nodding. "If that is what you prefer. If Cilla does not reply within a day or two, you head down to Gullah. You should go anyway, spend some time with your wife."

Mark nodded agreement. Henrietta cocked her head as she eyed Benjamin thoughtfully. Was the Colonel trying to rid himself of Mark? This was the second time in moments that he proposed the idea of Mark leaving for Gullah. To spend time with Mage - or because he could no longer stomach the man? Perhaps he knows more than I realise…

"Sir," Watson entered the chamber. "There's a fellow outside requesting to see you. Reverend Oliver, he says his name is."

"Then send him in, son, send him in!" Benjamin cried, clapping his hands together. Oliver was soon escorted into the chamber. Nathan Martin came with him. Benjamin crowed with delight, he embraced his son, then the men greeted one another like the old friends they were. Oliver already knew Mark, though not very well. Other introductions were made and soon, they were all seated and Benjamin was regaling them all with the battle at Kings Mountain in North Carolina. A great Patriot victory.

"I'd slipped into Pembroke to retrieve some papers," Oliver began regaling Benjamin with a story Henrietta had already heard several times before. "And wouldn't you know it, I found a small pouch of tea I'd concealed away. I decided to enjoy a sip -"

"Not very Patriot of you," Mark arched a disapproving eyebrow. Tea had become a symbol of all things British, and Patriots disdained it more often than not.

"I do quite enough 'Patriot' things," Oliver rebuked. "I don't think anyone could really take a clergyman to task for enjoying a cup of tea. Well, as I was saying, I decided to brew myself a cup. I would leave shortly later, there was no danger in it. Or so I thought. Until wouldn't you know it, but Miss Martin rode into town with a full escort of Green Dragoons in her wake." He studied the men carefully, enjoying their suddenly cold, hard stares. Nathan was grinning for he knew the story complete, but the others did not. The Reverend would tell them the best of it soon, but it amused him to see Benjamin stew for a few moments. The man had a ridiculous sense of humour and had always got the better of Oliver. It was nice to turn the tables occasionally.

"Did she now?" Benjamin asked, voice soft but cold. "A full escort of Dragoons." He gulped back a large amount of whisky.

"Yes. She said her husband feared many things and never let her leave the plantation alone."

The whiskey flew from Benjamin's mouth as he began coughing a spluttering. Mark, Thomas and Gabriel looked stunned. Watson wandered over to the window, he gazed outward, struggling. He'd been so infatuated with the lass when they were back in Charlestown, when he'd been attempting to court her. What did he feel for her now, he wondered? He didn't know. It disturbed him to hear her name, it disturbed him that she was married to Tavington…

"You spoke to her?" Benjamin squeaked in a high pitched voice. This was the reason why his whiskey had exploded from his mouth; he was stunned to the quick.

"Indeed," Oliver laughed. "Here now, calm yourself. I'll tell you what happened. As I was saying, I had just made my cup of tea and was quite enjoying it, when I heard someone moving about in the hall. I went to see who it was and there was Miss Martin, standing at the pulpit. She was as stunned to see me there as I was her. We chatted, she'd just learned a piece of news from Mrs. Turnbull, who expected her to deliver the news to Tavington. Beth was most disconcerted, which is why she came to the church - she needed to be in a place of calm… though in truth, I feel it was His Lord Above, guiding her. For you see, the news Mrs. Turnbull had discovered was when my next sermon was to be held; the whereabouts, the date and even the time. She told Beth in the hopes that Beth would tell Colonel Tavington. She passed the warning to me, instead."

Benjamin stared, face unreadable. Gabriel and Thomas shared a grave look; but Nathan sat there grinning.

"I asked her what she'd have done, if she had not encountered me, if she had not been able to impart this warning directly," Oliver paused for effect, quite enjoying himself, then he continued gladly, "and she said she'd have paid a visit to Mrs. Henrietta Rutledge."

After a startled moment, Gabriel and Thomas both laughed, just as Oliver had. Henrietta wore a fixed smile.

"She said that, did she?" Benjamin asked.

"And then I met with her," Nathan said, taking up the retelling. All eyes turned to him, then. "On the street right under the Dragoons noses. I asked her if she had any information for me and she admitted that with all of the British forces all sick, that no one would be able to reinforce Ferguson, should he need it. I sent a message to you straight away, did you get it in time?" Benjamin shook his head. "Drat." Nathan said. "Oh well, it doesn't change the fact that she willingly gave me information!"

Benjamin nodded slowly, he understood his son's meaning. Nathan wanted Beth to redeem herself after marrying Tavington, and in giving him information, he felt she had done that. And yes, not receiving the message did not detract from Beth's willingness to pass along the information. But Benjamin had already suspected that no reinforcements would arrive for Ferguson, for he had known from Gabriel that the Legions were sick.

"This is good," Mark said, nodding in approval. "She's at the Great House… Imagine the sort of information she can provide - she has access to Tavington's journals, the letters and missives that cross his desk, the conversations over dinner! This is perfect, I'll have my spies in the camp make contact with her at once."

Henrietta gave him a cool stare of disbelief. First his wife and daughter, and now his niece? It was a surprise to her that he could not sense her disgust. At least he would not be whoring Beth for the information, she would be getting it from her husband.

"Mark, we've discussed -" Benjamin began but Nathan piped up, speaking right over him.

"I've met with her several times since," Nathan said proudly, "always at Pembroke. From her, we learned that the local Tory's had started sending provisions from their own farms to Fresh Water, to help feed Tavington's Legion. One was being delivered that afternoon from Mr. Drysdale's, Beth said. We were able to intercept it. A wagon load less vegetables for the Lobsterbacks!" Nathan said proudly; Gabriel and Thomas shared a grin, as pleased about Beth's willingness to spy as Nathan was. The lad was about to launch in to yet another incident of 'bumping into' Beth, who gave him the most recent information she'd learned, when Benjamin cut in with a cool and very grave question.

"Nathan," he said softly. "Do you love your sister?"

Nathan stopped short, his mouth hung open. "Do I love… Of course I do!" He said, aghast.

"I'm glad to hear it," Benjamin said. "I have another question for you. Will you be there to protect your sister - who you love - when that husband of hers learns she's been passing information to his enemy?" He paused, watching his son's face carefully. Nathan's jaw worked, his blue eyes were large. "Information that her own brother - whose love and approval she is clearly desperate for - pressed her for. Information he encouraged from her, without ever a thought to her safety." All of his sons looked quite chastened now, their mirth and pleasure gone. Benjamin held up his hand. "As for the information itself, it was all a bit useless, wasn't it? We already knew the British weren't coming to Ferguson's aid, why should Beth have risked her skin to tell you?" he shrugged. "And so we got a few extra horses and a wagon load of cabbages. Tell me, was it worth her risking her neck for that small gain?"

Nathan hung his head, his fingers fiddled nervously in his lap.

"The information might not have reached you in time to be of use," Mark argued. "And you might deem the rest to be inconsequential," he continued. "At some point, however, the information Beth provides us could give us the ability to strike a massive blow to the British!"

"You once spoke of how the Patriot women have other weapons at their disposal, and aren't afraid to use them," Benjamin said to Mark, who nodded agreement. "And you weren't afraid to use those weapons. You're right, Mark; our women are not cowards. However," his voice hardened. "War is a man's game and women have no place in it. It is our responsibility to protect our wives and our daughters. I'd never encourage them to put themselves at risk - I'd rather treat the women I love with honour and respect, not as weapons to be used in a man's war."

Mark's eyes widened at the implication that, as he hadn't hesitated to use his wife and daughter, he had no honour.

Henrietta had her answer. Not only did Benjamin Martin know what use Mark Putman had put his womenfolk to, but he also clearly, deeply, disapproved. She decided she would take him aside, speak to him alone later, to see if he knew the full extent of Mark Putman's depravity. Setting his women to spy was one thing - but to put them in the beds of those they are spying on? That was another thing entirely. And Martin, Henrietta decided, needed to know. If he did not already.

Benjamin ignored Mark's look of outrage, for he still had his sons to deal with.

"I know you want her to be Loyal to us," he said to Nathan. "I know you want her redeemed in the eyes of our fellow Patriots. I know you want them to see the good in her, for her being Loyal to us. But I do not doubt that Tavington is capable of beating her, Nathan. He'd beat that girl bloody, and there would be nothing anyone could do to help her. Certainly not you, the one who demanded all of this from her in the first place. She only gave that information to you because she loves you, Nate. Because she misses her family, because she's feeling apart from us in a way she's never been before. She'd do anything to impress us now, anything to be welcomed by us. She's conflicted and confused. Do not use any of that against her ever again, do you understand me?" Benjamin's voice was hard now. "If you want no harm to come to your sister, do not place her in that situation again."

Nathan nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, papa."

"No doubt you thought it a great lark," Benjamin drew a sullen breath, he breathed it out slowly, trying to remain calm. "No doubt you wanted everyone to think of it as her redemption. 'You see all you Patriots? My sister is good after all!' And Gods, here you are, bragging about it, making sure our fellow Patriots know," he gestured grandly about the room. "That your sister is still on our side. That she isn't the turncoat they consider her to be. But none of them will be there to help her either, if Tavington learns of this… She could be in danger yet."

Nathan's cheeks coloured and Benjamin tightened his lips. He wanted to clout his son across the back of his damned fool head. Damn and blast the boy.

"You better hope he doesn't hear of it," he ground out. "Next time you happen to 'bump' into Beth, you don't ask her a damn thing, you hear? You tell her you love her, and that she doesn't have to risk herself for that love, and that in future, you're going to leave her the bloody hell alone. Jesus bloody Christ." He slumped back into his chair.

Even Oliver was chastened, he did not have the heart to chastise Benjamin for his profanity. He tried to think of how many men he himself had told. He hadn't meant to cause harm, indeed he had believed he was doing the Martin family a good turn, helping to restore the family name amongst the Patriots. Now, though, he realised he had erred and he was as worried for Beth as her family were.

"I do not want her to risk herself," Benjamin murmured, unable to hide his pride and worry both. "She's a good girl, Oliver," he said to the reverend. "At heart, she is."

"Of course she is, Ben," Oliver replied.

"That's damnably frustrating though," Thomas folded his arms over his chest and stretched his long legs before him. "I'm not saying she should continue, papa, no need to glare at me so. But just think of the things we could learn from her? She's the Colonel's wife!"

"No, she's not," Benjamin said, his voice ice. Thomas scoffed under his breath. Lord, his father was a fool - if he continued to insist the girl to be unmarried, then he would have to consider her to be ruined, for she sure as hell wouldn't be a virgin anymore! Damned stubborn fools.

"Well, seeing that you've both seen her, you can at least tell me how she is," Benjamin said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

"Beth is well," Oliver replied, speaking of Beth. "She looked healthy, she's eating well. She seemed in fairly high spirits."

"Is she happy?" Thomas asked and Benjamin growled at him to shut the hell up. Thomas scowled. "You're not going to be able to deny she's married when her belly is big with his child, papa," he said bluntly, then danced out of the way when Gabriel threw a punch at his arm.

"Shut it, Tommy," Gabriel said. "Christ, you just don't know when to shut up."

"I disagree with you," Mark said, finally challenging Benjamin. "This is not just a man's war - our women and children have to live in this country, they have a stake in this."

"You do as you wish with your family," Benjamin snapped. "And I'll do as I wish, with mine."

"Do you think they've discovered what happened at Kings Mountain?" Gabriel asked as a means of changing the subject before the men began to argue. They'd been doing that a lot lately, Benjamin and Mark.

"I certainly hope so," Mark said, pleasure warming him. What a victory that had been. Balm to his bruised soul, that's what Kings Mountain had been for him.

"We're here, aren't we?" Benjamin asked pointedly. "Word would have flown ahead of us. Yes, I'm fairly certain the British know exactly what happened to their Tory force by now."

Fresh Water Plantation, South Carolina

Banastre lay on his back, with a very naked Cilla stretched out alongside him. Her head rested on his shoulder, their fingers caressing. There was no chance that Bordon would come looking for her. They'd risen from their bed at the same time, but he had ridden out while Cilla had padded her way down the corridor, for some early morning delight with Banastre. As for Bordon, he was with Harmony Farshaw. At least, that was where Cilla suspected he was spending his time these last few days now that he was better, when he left the house and did not return for hours. He was visiting Pembroke, where Cilla knew Mrs. Farshaw was residing. It did not matter to Cilla, it freed her to visit Banastre's room without the remotest fear of discovery.

"I could almost wish you were still sick," she said. "Then you would not have to leave."

"I know," he agreed. "I wish I could stay here forever," he said. "I also wish I'd recovered a week ago. We never would have lost that battle, if I'd been there with the Dragoons."

Cilla said nothing, for she wasn't as sure of that as he was. Tarleton had been in no condition to answer a summons to reinforce Major Patrick Ferguson, nor had any of Cornwallis' other forces; they'd all been too damned sick. But if Tarleton had have been there, she wasn't so sure the outcome would have been victorious for the British. Not with her uncle reinforcing the Patriots of North Carolina. It might have been a Colonel and a Major, who died in the battle that day. The council meeting was two days ago now, two days since O'Hara had passed along the news that the British had been defeated, the Loyalists had fled or been killed, and Cornwallis was en-route now, trying to rush from his now precarious position in Charlotte in order to reach the safety of his forces still stationed in South Carolina. Two days later and those at Fresh Water Fort were still reeling with disappointment.

And Cilla was reeling with disappointment, for in just a few more hours, her lover would leave her; to join Cornwallis.

"Will you miss me?" Banastre asked her.

"Yes," she said and he smiled down at her.

"That's what I like to hear…"

"You've such conceit," she laughed. "I despise conceited people but I find it endearing in you. How is that possible?"

"Hmm. Perhaps it's because I'm so damnably handsome. Or maybe you're willing to overlook my conceit, because of the pleasure I give you."

"Hmm, you do that. Lord, Ban, I don't know how I lived before… How will I get by now?" She asked. "You've opened this whole new world to me, and now you're leaving it!"

"I'll be back this way," he promised. "And you'll be welcome to slip into my chamber whenever you wish."

"That's true. Probably not wise, but true," she said.

"Not wise?"

"Well, we've taken some risks, haven't we? And it's not really right, what we're doing."

"Ugh, well, if Richard can be so neglectful of his husbandly duty, how could he blame us?" Banastre said loftily.

"I'm just as pleased he's not doing his husbandly duty," Cilla laughed. "Though it might be that I'll have to one day. He wants to have a child, you see."

"Well, it's probably a good thing your courses have begun," he said, for her bleeding had started during the night. Cilla hadn't been certain how Banastre would receive her, with her menses, but it was starting out light like it always did, and he wasn't even slightly perturbed. The only concession he'd made, was to not pleasure her with his tongue. "You've been in my bed almost daily since I got here, I could so easily have gotten a child on you," Banastre said. "You would have had to lure him to your bed, then, to make him think it was his."

"You're scandalous," she laughed. "I will miss you terribly, Ban. Will you miss me?" She asked, sidling closer. She laid one slim leg across his hips.

"Most certainly," he tipped her face back and kissed her nose.

"I'm glad to hear it," she smiled. She sighed, she really would miss him…

"So great a sigh," Banastre was shifting, she felt his phallus swing against her leg. He was ready again, and he began to kiss her, his hands moving over her body. "One last time, my love?" He whispered.

"Hopefully not the last. One last time for now," she amended with a smile, opening herself to him. She shifted onto her back and he moved across her body, entering her in one smooth move. She wrapped her legs over his, just as he'd taught her, and began meeting his thrusts. They were both soon sweaty, panting, kissing in a frenzy of passion as his cock pinioned in and out of her. At length, Cilla arched her back and cried out, her fingers digging into his fleshy sides. She gasped and panted, bucking wildly through her orgasm. When they were both replete, she smiled up at him and fingered his auburn hair from his face.

"Oh, yes, I'm going to miss you," she giggled. He smiled back, and for an answer, he kissed her deeply, slipping his tongue between her lips.