Chapter 106 - To Capture a Colonel:

Calvin approached the first sentry cautiously. Although it had stopped raining earlier that evening, the trails were still wet, the trees above still dripped enough that it might as well still be raining. He'd travelled far in only a short time, and he'd done it as quickly as possible. It'd been a terrifying flight, as though the hounds of hell were on his trail. And they were on his trail, he knew. He'd seen the firebrands from a hoard of horsemen from the higher vantage of a hill, when he'd stopped for long enough to chance a glance back toward the Ferguson's. A shiver had coursed his spine for it was Tavington's lot, he had recognised the uniforms.

Now he was well onto the Rutledge Plantation, and after giving the house a wide berth, he was entering the forest where he knew that Benjamin Martin had quartered his men.

Had he been careful enough? If the tracks of his mad dash bought Tavington to this place, Martin was hardly likely to thank him for it. He was certain he'd lost the Dragoons in the swamps, however. Still, with no fresh rain to scour away his tracks, there was a very real possibility that Tavington might be able to pursue him, even up to Martin's doorstep. Worried about what he'd left behind, and even more worried about what lay before him, Calvin approached the sentry.

The man was nothing more than a dark shape squatting beside another dark shape, that of an old walnut tree. The fellow was very still, as though he thought if he remained frozen, he would not be noticed. But Calvin knew he was there, and when the lad continued to approach, the fellow rose, and leveled his rifle.

"I'm here to see Colonel Benjamin Martin," Calvin began quickly, lest he be shot before saying his piece. "And Mr. Mark Putman."

The man had been listening, Calvin - his eyes adjusted to the gloom - had been able to see the stern set of his features. There had been murder in that man's eyes, but now his face smoothed, became more amiable.

"Who you be then, to be asking for them?" He asked.

"Lieutenant Calvin Farshaw of Colonel Clement's first division of infantry, 2nd Regiment of the South Carolina Continentals," Calvin said, giving the rank he'd once held as though he were still a Continental. He sat a little taller in his saddle, he felt pride for the first time in over a year, for it had been that long since the battle which had destroyed his Company, and turned him into a prisoner. He'd almost died in that battle, and he'd been reborn as a Redcoat soldier. But that had been forced on him, he'd had no choice but to turn coat. He had been an Officer in the Continentals before, didn't that mean he still was now? It was time to reclaim his former life, and the very idea put mettle in his spine. His gloves creaked as he tightened his fingers on the reins.

"Ah, well then," the fellow, astonishingly, saluted to Calvin - an Officer of the Continentals - giving the youth the respect he duly deserved. Heat swelled in Calvin's blood, his face flushed with it. Lord, it felt good to be himself again. The sentry continued to speak as he led the way into the bushes. Calvin had to dismount and lead his horse by the reins, for the branches were too low, the brush too thick, to ride through. Even if Tavington did follow his tracks all the way here, he would not be able to find him in bush so dense as this. Still, he'd better warn the Colonel, he thought.

They slogged through the woods for a very long while, Calvin lost track of time, it must have been at least a half hour. And then there was a swamp land to negotiate around, the paths of which seemed well known to Calvin's guide. Without the sentry, Calvin would have become lost long since. His boots and breeches were soon coated in mud. He slipped twice and only his hold on the reins stopped him from falling flat on his face. It was tough going, in the dark. He glanced over his shoulder for signs of pursuit, but all he could see was darkness all around, and stars high above. The great house was well and truly gone from sight now, he had no way of knowing if he'd led Tavington to Henrietta Rutledge's doorstep. Then again, the Dragoons might have lost his trail long since. One could only hope. At least another hour, he was about to ask his guide just how far away had Martin made his camp, when they came upon more woods. The fellow whistled, a trilling sound which belonged to no bird Calvin could identify. A few moments later, the call was answered in kind. Another sentry answering the predesignated calls. The two were let through, to continue their way through the woods this time. It was still too dense for riding, and the footing was most uncertain, with the roots and forest debris coating the hunting trails. He decided it was better not to bother asking how much further - they would get there when they got there.

After walking for what felt like miles, the two entered a large clearing and finally, they were amidst Colonel Martin's men. The soldiers had made their home beneath lean to's made of branches, some slept while others sat around fires. A make shift cabin had been erected, no doubt built by Martin's men. It even had two windows, though it sported only one chamber. Lantern light glowed from within, smoke trailed lazily from a chimney. The soldiers had done well, it was a fine, if small, construction. The sentry had been challenged several times since nearing and then entering the camp proper, and he was challenged again before they reached the house. A disciplined camp, this. A soldier came forward and relieved Calvin of his procured horse, after Calvin removed his saddlebags. Another trooper came forward to carry those for him, for he was an Officer and they respected him as such. Lord, it felt good to be amongst his own again.

Martin had been alerted and the Colonel himself was waiting on the doorstep. Calvin had never met the fellow before, but he had no doubt that this was Colonel Benjamin Martin. Though middle in years, he was strong of build and fair radiated a slow burning strength and power. And keen disapproval. The man stood with lantern light to his back, giving him a halo of sorts and adding to his authority.

"Farshaw," he said by way of greeting, voice stern. "You're a long way from where I need you to be, son."

Calvin had been afraid of this. He'd known when he set out that he might not be welcome, for he was disrupting Martin's carefully laid plans. Putman's, too. But with Cilla in the heart of the British Fort, surely they would not feel the lack of his absence? Much of the information they had received this past week had come from her, not only from him. And much of the information Cilla had gathered, had not differed much from Calvin's own efforts. He truly was not needed there at the Ferguson' House any longer. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I was discovered."

"Damn and blast it, are you well?" Benjamin gasped, reaching out as if to pat Calvin down for bruises. His very real concern was touching.

"I am, Sir."

"How did it happen? How did you get away?"

"Well, I… ah…"

"Perhaps if you let him into the cabin, where it's warm, he'll be able to tell you," yet another man said, from just inside the doorway.

"Yes, you're right Gabriel," Benjamin said, taking hold of Calvin's arm and leading the way forward. "There's broth and bread inside too."

Calvin was seated in a surprisingly comfortable chair, with a bowl of hot broth on his knees and bread in his hands. The chamber was large, and boasted many chairs at this end by the fire, a large table in the centre, which served as a petition for the other section of the chamber, where there were cots all lined up in a neat row. Martin was not using this chamber solely for himself, it seemed. There were youths in the room too, Calvin had been introduced to them a short while earlier. Nathan, Thomas, Nicholas who had once been a Redcoat, Gabriel, and finally Mark Putman. They were all seated by now and Calvin was handed a bowl and some bread.

"Sir, I have to tell you, I think Tavington is on his way," Calvin warned even as he began shovelling spoonfuls of broth and bread into his mouth. "Gods, this is good." He sighed. "I tried to shake him, but I don't know - he has excellent trackers and I'm worried I left a fairly obvious trail in my haste to get away."

"Tavington is coming after you himself?" Benjamin said, sounding surprised.

"I'm an Officer and a traitor," Calvin shrugged. "It's definitely him. I'd know that bastard a mile off, even in the fuc - ah, that is, even in the dark. I saw him a few miles from here - from the other side of Rutledge Plantation, I mean. He's out there, close by."

"He won't find us, if that's what you're worried about," Martin said. He turned to yet another fellow who had joined them. "Rollins, head out to make sure, will you? See if you can discover Tavington's position."

The rough looking militiaman nodded, and strode from the chamber.

"My daughter, how is she?" Mark pressed now that the warning had been imparted.

"I need to question this young man about how he was discovered, Mark," Benjamin said.

"And I need to question him about my daughter!" Mark snapped, whirling on Martin. Calvin stared at the two, shocked. Then he remembered that they were family. Sure, Benjamin Martin's reputation made him seem larger than life and had even Calvin Farshaw in awe. But Martin's own family would see the man as he was - just another man. "Is she well?" Mark said to Calvin, clearly determined to control the conversation. Benjamin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. When he made no protest, Calvin answered Mark instead of Martin.

"She was well when last I saw her," Calvin replied between mouthfuls. "She was right happy to learn you were alive, Sir. When she stopped crying, I could see she was real happy. Have you been receiving the letters she's been writing you?"

"Yes, I have. That doesn't stop me from worrying, however," Mark was working his jaw, his face was blotched red. He was struggling to keep himself together, though Calvin could not understand why. The other men - his family - watched him with grave concern. Calvin began mopping the last of the broth up with the bread.

"Well, Sir, Bordon ain't even there and no one else is hassling her. And she never has anything bad to say about her lot when she gives me information to send on to you." Mark looked suddenly wary for some odd reason, his eyes quickly darting to Benjamin Martin's.

"And what information would that be?" Benjamin Martin asked, voice hard. It was to Mark Putman he asked the question. Mark straightened in his chair. Calvin looked back and forth between them.

"I'm sorry, did I say something I shouldn't have?"

"My brother in law was not aware that some of the information we've been receiving from Fresh Water, has come from my daughter," Mark replied and Calvin gasped.

"I'm sorry - I really am. I didn't mean to cause any trouble -"

"Think nothing of it," Mark said, waving him down. "Benjamin, there is nothing I can do about it - she's undertaken this all on her own. She's organised the spies to stand watch on her window and when she moves the planter from one side to the other, she is signalling she has information. She then passes it on to them, and goes about her business. I did not ask her to do it."

"But you haven't forbidden her, either!" Benjamin snapped.

"As if it would do any good! I'm not there to forbid her anything!" Mark said hotly. "Besides, she's my daughter, not yours! You just worry about Beth, Goddamn it!" Martin snapped his mouth shut, looking furious. Mark turned back too Calvin. "Continue."

"Ah, where was I?" Calvin began warily. "Ah… Oh yeh, I think she's alright. She's being looked after."

"Thank you," Mark's strain lessened somewhat, he slumped back in his chair and ran a weary hand across his brow. "It's one thing, her telling me that in her letters. It's another thing hearing about it from someone whose actually seen her."

"Do you mind if I question him now, Mark?" Benjamin asked scathingly and even Calvin, who did not know the man, heard the edge to his voice. Mark tightened his lips and nodded. Benjamin turned those hard eyes on Calvin. "What happened, son?"

"I…" Gods, how much of this am I going to be able to keep secret? They'll know soon enough that I killed Fallows… Hoping the Patriots did not learn the rest of the details elsewhere, he began. "I finally had a moment to myself, and I was in in my chamber, working on making O'Hara's seal from the clay indent I'd made. My door was locked - I've been so careful, ever since I lifted the cipher and the letters… I thought Fallows was in some council meeting but the next thing I knew, just as I sat down to work, he was banging on my door. He knew I was in there because I'd coughed just before he knocked. So I quickly shoved everything back into my drawer and closed it, but then I couldn't find the damned key. I found it later, it was on the floor but at that time, I couldn't find it and I was taking too long to open the door. I figured there was no reason for Fallows to go into the drawer - he was likely just summoning me back to work, he probably wouldn't even come into the chamber. So I opened the door a bit, stuck my head out to see what he wanted. Next thing, he's pushing past me and into the room, and he's talking about how O'Hara passed me over for promotion. I don't even fucking - sorry, I don't even want it. I suppose it might have been helpful for us," he gestured about the room, the 'us' were his fellow Patriots. "Maybe me being a Captain would mean I'd have access to greater information but I don't think so - I'd still have been Fallows clerk, doing the same job I was doing. Anyway, I thanked the Major for trying - pretending I was all grateful for his effort and disappointed by the rejection. I thought he'd go, then, but the next thing, he was pulling out his pipe and then patting down his coat for his pouch. 'Have you any tobacco?' Fallows asked and before I could even answer -"

"Oh, no," one of Martin's sons groaned - Thomas.

"- he pulled open the damned drawer. He just sort of stood there at first, staring at the clay indents in confusion. But I'd done Fallows' seal a while ago and that was sitting there - with the clay indent I'd made of it, he recognised it right quick. He pulled it out, along with O'Hara's cipher and the letters I'd stolen, and the forgeries I'd made to practice Fallows' and O'Hara's hand writing. It was all there and when he asked for an explanation, I couldn't give him one. For the world of me, I couldn't think. What could I say?"

"What did you do?" Benjamin asked softly. "You're here… how did you get away?"

Calvin shifted under that weighty gaze, wondering if Martin was able to pick the truth from the lies. And now - to admit he'd killed Fallows. How well would that go down? He was just another a Britisher, Calvin thought. He was the enemy. Quiet and grave, Calvin said, "I murdered him."

Benjamin's eyes grew wide and he drew back slightly.

"I know, you're shocked," Calvin said. "Sir, I just… I reacted. He was about to shout - the guards would have come, I would have been carried off. Questioned. Hanged. I didn't want either. If I'm to die, I'd rather do it fighting. Not hanging like a criminal after revealing everything to my interrogators. How do I know if I'd hold up under torture? It would have been a disaster - the other spies might have been revealed, Mrs. Bordon…" he said, including Putman in his gaze. Putman nodded gravely. "I'd like to think I wouldn't have disgraced myself but that's just it, I don't fucking know. I never fucking been through it. I had secrets I didn't want them digging for and yeh, I didn't want to hang, neither. I don't want to die like that. So I… I killed him."

"How?" Benjamin asked. His voice was gentle, everything about him had softened. Commiserating. Gods above, Calvin had murdered a man. Who'd have thought he'd find commiseration?

"There was a knife on the table," he reached down and pulled it out of his boot now, he turned it over and over, then placed it on the table. "This one. I… I stabbed him in the neck. I don't know how many times."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Nathan!" Martin barked and the youngest of his sons shrunk in on himself, embarrassed.

"Still," the oldest of the boys - Gabriel - was dazed. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Can we just stop that? The cussing. Just… enough. Jesus fu -" Benjamin caught himself just in time. He was reeling, utterly shocked. "Well…. What then. What did you do? How did you get away?"

"I spent all that time learning O'Hara's and Fallows' hand. Now, Fallows' will be useless to us, with him dead. But I was able to use it, in this at least. I locked the door and I sat at my desk and Gods, you're going to think me mad," Calvin paused, realising himself how unhinged it all sounded. "But I had too. I had to get away. I replicated Fallows hand in a letter that would secure me a horse from the stables and passage through the pickets. I used the replica seal to close the letter. Then I packed it all - and my belongings, and I walked out. I locked the door behind me but I guess it didn't take them long to go looking for him, or to find him, seeing that Tavington has pursued already."

"You're not just a spy now, son. You're a murderer too," Martin said.

Calvin lowered his eyes, his heart pounding as he waited for Martin to pronounce his judgement. Surely the Patriots would not hang him for killing the enemy?

"Which means they will never stop looking for you," Martin explained. "We'll need to get you away from here, maybe get you a place in a militia in North Carolina or somewhat. We've got connections - we'll be able to hide you," Martin said and Calvin's head came up. "Don't worry. We'll protect you, son. As much as we're able. I can't promise you'll live to see the end of this anymore than I can promise that to myself or to my own boys. But I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Sir," Calvin breathed, stunned.

"Grow a beard," Mark suggested. "Get your face covered. There's nothing we can do about your eyes though, there's not many with that green you've got; they're a dead give away. But yes, I agree, if he's up north with Colin Ferguson," Mark had turned to Benjamin. "He'll have a fighting chance."

"And he'll have a chance to fight," Benjamin said. "I'm assuming that's what you want? If not, lad, there's no harm in it. I'll find you someplace quiet to wait out this war -"

"I don't want to hang if I can avoid it but I ain't no coward," Calvin said. "And it's about time I was back in the saddle, fighting for the side I actually want to fight for."

"How did you become a Redcoat?" Nathan asked and Calvin launched into his explanation, about fighting at Savannah and being left for dead.

"I didn't know how to get away from them," he finished. "But I never wanted to fight for them. When we were lined up against the Patriots, Sir, I always aimed low. On my honour, I did."

"What do you mean?" Nathan was frowning.

"He means he levelled his rifle downward, so the shots went into the ground, not into the ranks facing him," Martin replied and Calvin nodded.

"Now that I'm back where I'm meant to be, I won't be fucking aiming low, that's for damned sure," Calvin ground out. "My honour on that, too."

Martin nodded gravely. The door opened and a militiaman entered.

"It's Tavington," he said and Martin rose with such abruptness that his chair toppled onto its back.

Calvin was in the saddle again, this time with a full force of two hundred men at his back. He'd been given a place at the front of the line, which enabled to him to hear all of Martin's commands. Some fifty Dragoons bearing firebrands in the darkness of night were easy to spot, when one knew where to look. Which Martin had. Now, they needed to draw the Dragoons down a path of Benjamin's own choosing. The Company came to a halt.

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" Martin asked Calvin.

"Yes, Sir," Calvin said, trying to still his beating heart. He could very well die tonight, he was risking his life.

"Alright, lad. Here, no heroics, alright? You just make sure he sees you, then you ride like the wind. Keep out of firing range but don't lose them."

"I'll draw them into the trap, Sir, I won't fail," he replied. Martin had nodded.

This was Calvin's chance to prove himself; his bravery, his mettle, his worth to the Company. He swallowed hard, then began to ride on alone. While he left the militia behind to bed into the bushes on either side of the trail, Calvin made his way toward the Green Dragoons. It was tough going, just as it had been earlier. The moon lit the way somewhat, a soft silvery glow allowed him to avoid the worst of the ruts in the trail. He made it out to the main road and he continued on toward the fire brand wielding Dragoons. They were someway off, and he could see it when the entire lot of them began turning off onto another road. That was not the way Martin wanted them to go. Setting his heels to his mounts flanks, he raced forward, throwing all caution to the wind. Just as the last of the Dragoons began turning off the road behind the rest of the detachment, he came within ten yards of them, and then stopped and cursed as though shocked to see them there. He swore loudly, drawing the attention of those at the end of the line.

"It's him!" A Dragoon shouted. More shouts were raised, muskets levelled. Calvin's horse reared, he bought it about so quickly.

If he was going fast before, he was flying now. His mounts hooves struck the earth; the sound was drowned by the full detachment of Green Dragoons thundering after him. He ducked low, trying to make himself a small figure, as more shots rang out through the night, bullets whizzing past his head. Good; with the fools firing at him, their weapons would already be spent when they entered the ambush. He just wished they wouldn't aim the damned things at him.

It took time to load a rifle. A packet of powder needed to be pushed down the barrel, followed by the ball. A soldier needed to be standing still to do it. With many of these fifty already having discharged their weapons, they would have no chance to reload when Martin's men began firing into them. A few of the Officers might have loaded pistols, but that was a poor answer to some two hundred rifles.

Tavington was shouting, Calvin would recognise that voice anywhere. It sounded triumphant. Calvin smiled. He thundered past the place he knew Martin's men to be, his smile widening by the moment. With only fifty Dragoons, Tavington's lot would soon be completely enveloped by the two hundred still concealed Patriots. Calvin raced past the last of the Patriots, then he wheeled his horse around to watch the show, and to level his own rifle. The lights from the firebrands grew closer, soon Calvin could see the outlines of the men and horses, then he could discern details of their uniform. Tavington was at the front of the line, with Brownlow and Dalton. There was no sign of Bordon. That was disappointing, he'd hoped Bordon would have joined with Tavington by now. The ball waiting in his rifle had been intended for Bordon's chest; damned bastard, making off with Harmony and hiding her. He knew Bordon was protecting Harmony. He just knew it!

Calvin did not dare to look at the bushes to either side of him, though he did hear a man - or a boy, Nathan Martin, he thought, curse, followed by a shushing noise from a comrade. The sounds reassured Calvin. He'd known they would be there, but to hear them was heartening.

Calvin could tell the moment Tavington saw him. The Colonel reined his horse in sharply, he raised his fist to slow his men, then he himself edged closer. Seeing Calvin's rifle, he shook his head and laughed. He must look a sight, a lone gunman turning to face fifty Dragoons, when he should have still been running for his life. That alone should have roused the Colonel's suspicions but he was a cocky bastard, and all he could do in that moment, was gloat.

"You're a little outnumbered, I'm afraid, little ganymede," he drawled. Calvin froze in the saddle, the blood draining from his face. He was the ganymede? Fallows had forced him, threatening to remove his protection, threatening to let him be handed over to Tavington and Bordon. It was their fault - Tavington's fucking fault that he'd chosen to be buggered over being fucking beaten to death. Fuck, he wanted to kill Tavington so bad just then. He sited, looking down the barrel, aiming for Tavington's chest. The other Dragoons were still coming, thundering into the ambush. "Come now," Tavington said, voice hard and cold. The Butcher, to his very core and never mind that there was a killing shot aimed and ready. "Don't be a fool. Put the rifle down and come along quietly."

"I'm not going with you, Butcher," Calvin said, green eyes shining in the firelight.

"You will answer for the murder, Farshaw. And for those other things you did," Tavington looked amused when he said that, and Calvin knew he was referring to the crime of buggery. He pulled the trigger. Another shot rang out right along with his, light flashed from the trees. Tavington jerked back in the saddle. Calvin wasn't sure if it was his ball which hit Tavington, or the one fired from the woods.

"Fire!" Martin screamed and all at once, shots rang out, light flared from the bushes to either side the Dragoons along the length of the road. Horses screamed and reared, toppling their riders. Others galloped every which way, trying to win free of the melee. And Calvin calmly reloaded his rifle, ready to take another aim at Tavington, who was on his feet, standing by his horse and clutching his shoulder. Brownlow and Dalton stood to either side of him, their horses giving them some cover as they aimed their pistols and fired into the bushes. It was all happening so quickly - men surged from the bushes with tomahawks, their rifles spent. It was close quarter fighting now, Calvin's rifle was useless. He could not fire and risk hitting one of his new comrades. Instead, he pulled his knife and raced forward, rushing toward Tavington. The Colonel had his sabre drawn and stood in a small three ringed circle back to back with Dalton and Brownlow. They were protecting each other, sabres sweeping deadly arcs over their heads, stopping anyone from closing. Other Dragoons fought likewise, Tavington had taught them well. Calvin could not close without risking his head.

"Cease!" Martin bellowed from the saddle. His men were as well trained and disciplined as Tavington's. Almost to a man, they stopped fighting, though they kept their weapons held in such as position as to defend. A few were still mid battle, but these pulled apart, and men on both sides - breathing heavily and eyeing one another warily - paused to await commands. Calvin's finger twitched on the trigger, he'd reloaded and he wanted - oh so badly - to pull it. Tavington was vulnerable, Calvin could kill him with ease now. He stayed his hand, however, obeying Martin's command.

"Surrender, Tavington!" Benjamin demanded. "Or this will be a slaughter."

His pistol was loaded, and aimed at Tavington's head. The Colonel's sabre was nothing against that. Tavington stilled, assuming a rigid stance, and he looked back at his Dragoons. It was obvious he was outnumbered four to one; the odds were even less in his favour now, for many of his had already fallen. Tightening his lips, he met Benjamin Martin's gaze.

"You offer terms?" He asked, his voice loaded with frustration.

"I adhere to the rules of war, as you well know. Your men will be blindfolded and escorted away from here. All of those wounded will be given medical aid. You, however, will accompany me," Benjamin urged his mount closer, until he was barely a yard from Tavington. "There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you, Butcher."

Tavington smiled. With a bullet hole and blood spurting from his shoulder, with his men stacking their weapons behind him, ready to be escorted to who knew where, his own fate uncertain, he smiled. Scoffing, he gave Martin a mocking bow.

"If you adhere to the rules of war, then you will allow me two companions, as befits a Gentleman Officer," Tavington said, his voice not showing even slight pain. "I choose Brownlow and Dalton."

"So be it," Martin said. Ignoring Tavington as though he no longer existed, he approached Gabriel, who happened to be standing close to Calvin. When he was close enough, Martin reached out and calmly placed his fingertip on Calvin's rifle, slowly but firmly forcing the youth to lower it. "They've surrendered," the Colonel said, and Calvin nodded curtly. He slipped the rifle into a loop on his saddle, without once taking his eyes off Tavington.

"Pity you didn't disobey orders," Tavington said, taunting Calvin Farshaw. "I'd like to see Martin stripe your back." Calvin's fingers twitched, he was near to drawing the rifle again.

"It's not his back that will be striped tonight, Butcher," Martin said, a cryptic reply which made Tavington's eyes widen. There was no further time for talk; Tavington, Brownlow and Dalton were made to mount their horses, while the other Dragoons were herded into a large group and ushered away on foot. Their mounts were seized by the Patriot militia, as were their arms and ammunition. The wounded were to be carried off with the Dragoons, to someplace else. The dead, Martin commanded, were to be left on the road. While some of his own men had taken wounds, none had died in this small skirmish.

"I want you kept out of sight," Benjamin had walked off into the night, to speak to his brother in law who was waiting well outside of the circle of light. Having nothing else to do, Calvin had followed him. Benjamin continued, "go with Rollins."

"I want him dead, Ben," Mark ground out. Calvin was surprised by the venom in Mark's voice, he seemed to want Tavington dead as much as Calvin himself did. Was he the one who pulled the trigger just after Calvin? "This was not the plan."

"I say what the plan is, Mark," Benjamin said, voice firm. "And I never agreed to one that saw Tavington dead. I will deal with him as I see fit. He will not see the morning unscathed, but I will be the one to decide what to do with him. I want you kept out of sight. The spies back at the fort need someone to report to, and they can't do that if Tavington suddenly knows you're alive."

Mark tightened his lips, staring daggers past Benjamin at Colonel Tavington.

"Are we going to have a problem, Mark?" Benjamin asked with an undertone of threat. Mark shook himself, then tossed his head curtly. "Good. Now you," the Colonel said to Calvin, who startled with surprise. Benjamin cocked his head to one side as he studied the young man. Tavington had called the lad a ganymede; was it true? Was Calvin a sodomite? It was hardly a question he could pose now. He drew a ragged breath. "You will go with Mr. Putman. I want you both as far from Tavington as possible."

"So we don't kill him?" Mark challenged. "He should be hung, Ben!"

"You will leave this to me, Mark," Benjamin said, voice firm. "Go with Rollins, take Watson - and Farshaw - with you."

There was no room for argument, Colonel Martin was resolute and the others had no choice but to obey him.

At least they are letting me ride, Tavington mused, though with his hands bound around his back, he wasn't certain he could keep himself in the saddle. It was one indignity on top of another, the blindfold Martin had forced over his head. He'd surrendered, hadn't he? Martin truly was a savage, he had no idea how to behave as a Gentleman. The horse moved beneath him, Tavington could feel the muscles bunching and it was only his many years of horsemanship which helped him to stay astride, by using his thighs alone. He did not bother to speak, to Martin or his men or even to Brownlow and Dalton. There was no point speaking, and it would drain energy he didn't have. Christ his shoulder hurt. Martin had seen to a rudimentary field dressing, the bleeding had slowed. His left shoulder, thank the Great Lord Above. His sword arm was still good, not damaged at all.

Sweet Jesus, Farshaw… He laughed softly. The damned bastard. Committing sodomy and murder. Deserting to Martin, and then leading Tavington's men into that trap… Farshaw could not take credit for that part, he knew. That had been Benjamin Martin's very clever plan. He wondered if Benjamin Martin knew just what type of man he'd welcomed into his ranks? A sodomite. He considered warning the enemy Colonel to watch his back - or more accurately, his backside… He laughed again.

"I don't know what he's got to laugh about," he heard a young man's voice whisper somewhere to the left of him.

"I reckon he's gone mad," another youth said. Martin's son's, unless Tavington missed his guess.

My brothers in law, he thought. Then laughed again.

"What do you mean, 'gone'? He was always as mad as a march hare," the first one said.

"What do you think papa is going to do to him?" The second one said in even lower tones. Tavington strained to hear, a curl of foreboding slithering along his spine. Though he tried hard to hear the answer, it was lost to all the other noises surrounding them - the horses hooves, and men's quiet talk. He sensed there were not many, perhaps only ten or fifteen. Why Martin had split from his force, Tavington could not discern, but he knew he was amongst a much smaller Company than Martin had before.

The ride was taking its toll. A hasty bandage covered his shoulder, but he could feel the blood slipping through it and down his chest. That was going to be painful, having it dug out. If Martin allowed him proper medical care. That would be one way to solve the enemy Colonel's dilemma, he had never approved of William's marriage to Beth. William's death would be the perfect way to see it ended. Despite the loss of blood and the weakness that was slowly overcoming him, he did his best to sit erect in the saddle, refusing to allow his enemy the pleasure of seeing him slump.

Damn and blast it, he lamented as he rode. I should be sitting by the fire, cosy and warm, with a nice full stomach. Lord above, are you so set against me then? How the devil could this happen? Farshaw's fault. If I hadn't had to come out after him... I'd have been in bed with Linda by now. Just when I decide that I'll start bedding her again. Punishment, I suppose, he laughed grimly, then gave a wince as he rolled his shoulders.

It was hard to judge the passage of time, when denied the sight of the moon and the stars. It was not a short journey, that much he was able to discern. Unless they were going around and around in circles, to confuse him. Hours and hours of circling the same woods, for all he knew. That was something Martin would definitely do.

At long last, the horses finally stopped for more than the ten minute breaks Colonel Martin had allowed so far. They must have been miles and miles away from the battle sight, by now. Or perhaps they were still on Rutledge Plantation, he laughed to himself. Finally, his hands were unbound, and he was allowed to remove the blindfold. He blinked at the sudden light, the glow from firebrands hurt his eyes. He was on the plantation of a lesser farmer, with a small two room cabin and only two outhouses. A glow emanated from the cabin windows, men milled about, some seeing to the horses and others striding in and out of the house. Only twenty, he counted, roughly the amount he'd thought. Brownlow and Dalton were likewise unbound and they hesitantly walked over to him, while glancing about uncertainly. The Colonel kept up a calm facade, as the two junior Officers came to stand at his side.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Brownlow asked quietly. Except for several of the rebels keeping a close eye on the prisoners, they were mostly ignored by everyone else. Martin was several yards away, speaking to his sons, all three of them. Nathan, the youngest one present, glanced his way several times, which Tavington took as confirmation that he was the topic of the discussion. All three of them looked stone faced, and each one nodded agreement with whatever it was their father was saying.

Finally, Martin turned toward him. "String him up," he commanded, jerking one hand toward a post. Tavington had seen it earlier, a whipping post. The farm was not very prosperous now, but once, it must have boasted at least a few slaves. The post used to discipline those slaves was still there, jutting upward from the ground in the middle of the yard. Tavington's jaw dropped, this was beyond improper. Two particularly burly rebels came forward and seized his arms, they began to jerk him forward; the pain in his shoulder was phenomenal.

"Wait!" Brownlow cried, rushing forward. He raced toward Benjamin, while Dalton tried to grab one of the rebels holding his commander. He might as well have been pulling on an old, thick oak branch, for all the effect it did. The fellow's grip was not even slightly dislodged. "Sir!" Brownlow shouted at Benjamin. "I must object! On whose authority do you do this! You said you will abide by the rules of war, where is the Colonel's trial? You must cease immediately!"

Tavington's jacket, his Green coat, waistcoat, shirt, all of these were torn from his torso by his two burly captors. Dalton was on the ground by now, with yet another rebel restraining him. Brownlow was the only one still free, for all he'd done was voice a verbal remonstrance, he had not tried a physical attack.

"I will abide by the rules of war," Benjamin Martin began, voice firm and filled with authority. "But this has nothing to do with the war, boy."

"What are you talking about! You've made Colonel Tavington a captive, you must treat with him as his rank merits! He has broken no rules since his capture, therefore this is… it's illegal is what it is! Please, I implore you, stop this at once Colonel Martin!"

"Colonel Martin is not punishing a prisoner," Gabriel Martin said, coming to stand beside his father.

"He is! He's ordered him.. Oh God," Brownlow glanced over his shoulder and saw that William's hands were bound again, and his arms were being raised high over his head. He was half lifted to the balls of his feet, his arms high above his head, with the rope binding his wrists hooked over a nail in the post. His long black queue hung down his bare back. "Please, stop this," Brownlow begged, all his fire from before gone. "It isn't right. He's wounded. He needs medical care! Please, don't do this!"

Benjamin Martin stepped forward, coming to a stop in front of Tavington. The British Colonel dangled there before him, his almost expressionless face registering only some of the pain he was in. As fast as a striking snake, Benjamin's hand snapped out and he seized William's jaw, his fingers digging in hard.

"You beat my daughter," his words were clipped with fury.

"I beat my wife, as is my Goddamned right," William shot back, defiant. He showed no surprise, he'd already discerned what this farce was about.

"You have no rights over Beth. As her father, she was under my authority. She still is, for I never relinquished that authority to you," Benjamin shook his head. His voice was calm, but those eyes… Lord, those were enough to chill a normal man's blood. William, however, had more mettle than most. Benjamin continued, "I did not give her away to you, I never sanctioned that damned union. You took her without my blessing or permission. You attacked my daughter, and this offence must be addressed. It is not as a Colonel that I punish you, nor are your crimes relating to the war. It is as a father that I execute this punishment - for your unlawful assault against my daughter."

William tightened his lips. When Benjamin stepped around to the back of him, William did not turn his head to try and watch the man. He stared blankly directly ahead, into the darkness beyond the firebrand. There were shapes out there; trees, no doubt. He fixed his gaze on those, ignoring the rebels surrounding him, ignoring Brownlow's protests - the lad seemed near to tears now.

"Pass it over," Benjamin said calmly, and William knew he was speaking of the whip. He braced himself as best he could, determined not to make a goddamned sound. A crack split the air, shattering the sudden silence and William held his breath, bracing himself. But no blow landed. Benjamin Martin was one for theatrics, it seemed. His hands high above his head, William curled his fingers into fists and clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. Another crack shattered the night, then a whistle; this was it - he held himself rigid and then the tip of the whip lashed into his skin. Pain exploded in his back, every bit as immense as the bullet in his shoulder. His skin was torn open from that strike, he could feel it. Martin was not going to hold back. Brownlow and Dalton cried out - but William did not. Another sliced through the night, more pain erupted in another part of his back. Blood trickled down his skin, he dropped his head forward to the post and tried to breathe. Lord, he'd never been whipped before. It was indescribable. The skin of his back; split open by inches. He could not see Martin, but he didn't need to. He could hear him, the laboured breathing, his feet shuffling as he braced himself to put as much strength behind the blows as possible. Three more times he struck, the lash biting into and splitting open flesh with every blow. Then it was over, or at least Tavington thought. He hadn't uttered a sound, though someone was weeping openly by now. Brownlow, he suspected. Dear lad. William allowed himself to slump now, all of his strength had gone into keeping from crying out. It was over now, though he did wonder why Martin was letting him off so lightly. The whipping was beyond painful, but he'd expected at least thirty lashes from the enraged father, not just five.

"Gabriel," Martin barked, and William heard more feet shuffling in the mud. He stared at the post just before his eyes, suspicions gnawing… He remembered Martin speaking to his three sons before the whipping began. He'd wondered why the beating was so short. And now he knew why. He did not turn to look, but he could hear everything.

"Just stand back here," Benjamin was saying. "That's it. Hold yourself like this, now raise your arm back. You're in the right position, you don't even need to worry about aim from this angle. You'll get his back, don't worry. That's it, go."

So. It wasn't only the father, but the brothers, who would take out their wrath. William braced himself again. The blows did not have the same strength behind them; Gabriel was inexperienced, and it showed. It was still damned painful, all the same. Thomas was next, and although he was inexperienced, he had righteousness and energy on his side. Beth had always said that of all her brothers, Thomas was closest to her. Clearly Thomas felt the same. These ones from Thomas hurt almost as much as his father's had and they left new, devastating gashes down his back. Lastly, Nathan. Tavington would have laughed if he weren't in such agony. The whips coming from that child would be like butterfly kisses, in comparison. The message Martin was delivering was clear - that if one thought to hurt Beth, then the perpetrator would be faced with all of the men in her family to answer for it. If Samuel, and the youngest son, William, had been there, no doubt Martin would have placed the whip into their hands also.

"I don't want to do this, Papa," the boy Nathan said. His voice sounded queasy. No doubt he was looking at the ruin of Tavington's back, it took a certain type of man to mete this sort of justice, especially to someone already wounded.

"Then don't," came the reply. "I'll not force you. Pass it here." Tavington braced himself again, fearing that Martin meant to take Nathan's allotted five. A terrible thought occurred to William, perhaps Martin would take Samuel and William's share also. But then: "Cut him down. Bring him into the house. Billings, get the bag."

Tavington's muscles seemed to scream with agony as he was cut from the post and his arms were finally lowered. Blood traced his back and his chest, his legs felt so weak he didn't think he's be able to walk an inch. Somehow, he made it unaided, jerking his arm away when one of the rebels offered to help him. Beth's brothers waited by the steps, then they fell in behind him as he strode up onto the porch, and into the house.