Chapter 118 - Beth and Ban:
End of November, 1780:
Banastre stood outside his tent beneath the awning in the freezing cold, wishing he'd thought to put on his great cloak. "What is it, Whitty?"
The Lieutenant leaned in closer and in a soft voice, he imparted, "Sir, there has been a sighting of…" He paused and glanced into the tent, he did not continue until he saw that Beth was seated at the small table deep within, well out of ear shot. Only when he was certain that she would not hear him, did he continued, "you know who, Sir."
Banastre tensed, going to point as a bloodhound catching the scent.
"Where?" He snapped shortly.
"He is establishing his night camp not two miles from here," Whitty replied. "A negro came in a short while ago - a freed slave who happened to skirt close to… you know whose… camp. The fellow was careful to gain as much information about… you know whose… force before coming directly here to report it."
"How big is his force?" Banastre asked.
"Ten men."
"Jesus, ten only?" Banastre paused, his face incredulous then excited by turns.
"Apparently he - the Commander - sent out a detachment elsewhere, likely to cause some mischief or other," Whitty replied. "Our negro saw the men go, leaving you know who with only ten men. Confident bastard, bedding down with such a small guard."
"What devilry has he sent his detachment to?" Banastre asked, whispering furiously. Whitty did not answer, knowing the Colonel was asking rhetorically. "Perhaps he expects them to return quickly, for he would not leave himself unprotected for long. He is weak now, however."
"And two miles is not very far away at all," Whitty said, as excited as Banastre.
"No, it is not. Where have they made camp? What is the lay of it?"
"Heavily wooded," Whitty replied at once. "Which makes it easy for him to conceal himself."
"The woods would only work in his favour if we had not been informed of his location," Banastre boasted, an evilness in his otherwise pleasant smile.
"I agree. They have camped beside a creek. It is still shallow according to the negro, despite this rain. It would be easy for him to ford across, for his escape. We could send a detachment across the creek at this end, to come in at you know whose camp, to be in position to cut off escape," Whitty said and Banastre nodded approval.
"We must have him surrounded completely before moving in," Banastre said, then his eyes narrowed. "If the information from this freedman is correct," his lips twisted somewhat. Although the freed Africans were somewhat useful at times, Banastre could not help but think of them as anything but livestock, to be worked under the guidance of their Superiors - Gentlemen like himself. His family made their living from the slave trade, it was inhumane to stop such a lucrative endeavour. And it was galling that he himself had to enforce it. He could not help but to imagine how much profit his own family might be losing, each time Banastre freed a negro slave.
"I believe it is," Whitty replied, confident.
"We shall proceed with caution, as always," Banastre said, decided and commanding. "Gather the Dragoons - the full force, Whitty."
"All of them?" Whitty squeaked, shocked. "For ten men?"
"For this man?" Banastre replied, "I'd take a thousand if I had it. The entire Company, Whitty, ready to ride immediately."
"Yes, Sir," Whitty saluted. He whirled and darted out into the driving rain. Banastre turned back into the tent. Without mentioning her father's name even once, Banastre explained that the enemy had been sighted and must needs right out on the moment, if he was to capture them. Beth, accustomed to such by now, kissed him before he departed and wished him well. He wondered if she would still do so, if he'd told her the truth of who he was hunting.
Not bloody likely.
"What information have you, son?" Benjamin asked, hoping that this time, there would be some useful news coming out from Tarleton's camp. Night had fallen rapidly, winter was upon them and the days were much shorter now. He was sitting beneath a simple awning spread out above his head, the lead ropes tied around trees. It snapped in the wind, but held. The ground was sodden, but at least the awning kept the rain off of him. He sat beside a banked fire. The thick woods served to protect them from curious eyes; he allowed only this small fire, which would be dowsed as soon as it was used to boil the kettle and heat the stew. It made him nervous, having so few numbers, but he'd received information that a British baggage train was en-route on a major road a few miles away, heading directly toward Tarleton's Legion to resupply it. As soon as he learned of it, he detached a large portion of his men, to intercept and secure it. He had delegated the command of the detachment rather than head the mission himself, because he had organised to meet with one Abel Rogers this evening, one of his spies in Tarleton's camp. He had sentries in the trees, watching for oncoming threats. If trouble came, he could escape it, and so would his men. He and his men had the cover of night on their side, and the rain as miserable as that was, and an easy escape route across the creek into the woods; should their small force be threatened.
"Not as much as you'd like, I don't doubt," Abel said, looking forlorn at his inability to satisfy his commander. Water dripped from his British Legion infantry cap.
"You've not been able to speak to her?" Benjamin asked a little too sharply.
"What the devil's wrong with ye, man?" Billings asked Abel, voice hard. He leaned forward and stabbed a finger in emphasis. "Christ, Tarleton is gone more often than not. How difficult would it be to get into her tent? Or to just slip the lass a message when walking past her? Or paying off one of the camp sluts to do it?"
"More difficult than you might imagine, Sir," Abel said, morose at his failure. "I'm sorry, but Tarleton keeps guards on Mrs. Tavington's tent. I'm not sure if it's to keep her in when he's not there, or to keep his men out. Either way, I can't simply stride on in and let her know I'm there! And as for walking past her - Lord, I'd have to go through ten Dragoons before I got to her."
"So you wait until she goes for a walk or somewhat," Billings snapped.
"You don't understand," Abel said, voice tight with intensity. "She does not leave. Hardly ever. Mr. Scott had the opportunity to speak to her though." He saw Martin's sudden excitement and he held his hands up to forestall that. "Only briefly, a few days ago when a peddler came to camp. Mrs. Tavington had her maid with her and they looked over his wares. Mr. Scott had gone too, hoping he might bump into her there. He told her you had sent letters to Tarleton requesting that you hand her over, and she was real surprised to hear it. She had no idea that you've tried to make contact with her. He told her to seek him out, so he could tell her the rest. Days ago, that was. Reckon she hasn't been able to leave the Dragoon quarters, because she hasn't gone to see him yet."
"Damn and blast it," Benjamin said.
"I can't even learn anything from the other camp followers either. I tried to speak with Miss Nancy but she's awfully closed mouthed about her mistress. The other women, she never speaks to. Good luck trying to win one of those women over to carry a note in to Mrs. Tavington. They none of them have anything good to say about her, because of her haughty airs and all."
"Haughty airs?" Benjamin frowned. "Is there another Mrs. Tavington, perhaps? We can't be speaking of my own daughter."
"She's changed, Sir, with respect. For she is very cold and rude to the other women. They won't do one jot more for Mrs. Tavington that they don't have to, past what Tarleton has commanded of them. The way they speak of Mrs. Tavington…" He trailed off, then muttered, "it's probably best I don't repeat it."
"It's probably best that you don't," Benjamin agreed, voice hard, tense, outraged. "Damn and blast it. She ignores my letters and now she won't go speak to Alby? So much for her regard for her own father…"
"Sir, as I said, she didn't know you'd tried to get letters through," Abel said. "When Alby told me that, I did a bit of snooping and it turns out that Tarleton has all of Mrs. Tavington's correspondence delivered directly to him. Ever since Tavington sent her clothes and blankets and the like. I'm certain your daughter has high regard for you, and would write back to you. If she had known you had written to her."
Benjamin gaped like a fool. "He's keeping her letters from her? That damned bastard!"
Abel nodded agreement. "And just this morning, I learned that Mrs. Tavington has tried to send letters out - but Tarleton only pretends to send them. And letters have come in for her, but she won't ever know it, because they're given straight over to Tarleton. I don't know yet, what he does with them."
"Hell's teeth," Benjamin ground out. "You need to tell her this. You bloody need to tell her this!"
"I… For the reasons I've given already, it's hard to even get close. I'll tell Scott when I get back - maybe she will finally be able to leave the Dragoon camp again and she will be able to go and see him. Sir, there is something else I need to report to you," Abel shifted uncomfortably on the overturned tree trunk, uncertain how Benjamin would take this particular news. The Colonel looked at him in askance. "I ah… well, I heard that… Mrs. Tavington is with child, Sir," he finished all in a rush.
Benjamin froze, ice climbing his spine. His eyes wide and staring into the trees past Abel's head. Beth was pregnant. She was with child. It left him thunderstruck. "Is she certain?" He asked, voice cold.
"Word is, she asked the peddler to return with the sort of stays women wear when they're increasing, the ones that lace at the front? The camp followers are all talking about it. They asked Miss Nancy and although she is loyal to Mrs. Tavington, she isn't the brightest lass in the world. Friendly, I like her. But not bright. She let a few things slip when she was asked so now, they're as certain as can be. Mrs. Tavington is definitely pregnant."
"How far along?" Benjamin asked, voice hard.
"I don't know, Sir. No one does. Her waist isn't as small as it was, but to look at her, you'd think she's getting solid 'round the middle, like. Her pregnancy isn't obvious yet."
"Not far along then," Benjamin ground out.
"Sweet Jesus," Billings whispered, exchanging a questioning glance with Benjamin, both wondering the same thing. Who had the siring of the child; William Tavington or Banastre Tarleton? Nearly two months she'd been with Banastre. It could be either man.
"That will be all for now," Benjamin said to Abel, waving him off. "I'll have instructions for you before you return to Tarleton's camp."
"Yes, Sir," Abel said softly, commiserating. He disappeared into the trees a way, to give Martin privacy.
"Pregnant…" Billings mused, chewing on his own teeth. "So, what do ye think about that, aye?"
"Not very bloody much," Benjamin ground out. "Who will the child call papa, I ask you?"
"I'm sure I don't know," Billings sighed.
"And that's where the problem lies, isn't it?" Benjamin picked up a stick and began prodding at the banked fire; sparks flickered and trailed upward. "My daughter has run off with another man and now she probably can't name the father of her own child. Christ, John, what will Tavington say, when he learns of this? Pregnant. Dear Christ, as if the situation wasn't dire enough," Benjamin tossed his head like an angry wolf. "Mine and Tavington's plans will be dust now. Gods, just when he finally agrees to bring her to him at Fresh Water instead of to her aunts… I won't blame him at all, if he changes his mind back again. I'd made progress with him, he finally agreed that they should be living under the same roof to at least make it look good. But now she's carrying her lovers bastard, I doubt he'll allow it now. Is she determined to ruin us all then? What did I ever do to her, John? Was I such a terrible father, to deserve this?"
"Nothing," Billings replied, voice firm, answer immediate. "You did nothing wrong, Ben. You're a good da, you always were. Ye let her run a little wild, if ye listen to Mrs. Selton, but I say ye did nothing wrong. Miss Martin was a good lass, until she ran afoul of that lot," he said, disgusted, speaking of Tavington and Tarleton. "They did this to yer girl, not you."
"And she did it to herself," Benjamin said, glaring into the dying embers. "She can not be free of blame, she must own to a large measure of it. No one told her to get soused and bed Tarleton back at Rutledge Plantation. No one told her to go haring off with Tarleton when all that happened back home. William was faithful, yet she would not even listen to him. And now he must sustain further punishment, when she comes back to him with her belly full of another man's child?"
"You don't think it's the Butcher's?" Billings asked, using their name for the despised British Colonel. Benjamin and William might have reached an accord, but the rest of them had not.
"Small chance. Beth better start praying like hell that it is," Benjamin said, eyes intent. "It better have black hair and blue eyes, John. For if it doesn't, if it's got Tarleton's red and brown, there will be no going back. I fear of ever having those two reconciled."
"I'm shocked that ye want them to be," Billings said, eyes wide.
"They're married," Benjamin shrugged. "I have accepted that. If I'm forced to admit it, I'd go so far as to say I even admire him, now that I've got to know him somewhat. With her traipsing off with another man and getting pregnant… I think that's going to give William an awful amount of pain, worse than the whipping I gave him."
"If we can get through to her," Billings pointed out. "We've been trying for weeks, Ben. She even knows it now, but she hasn't gone near Scott. Tarleton won't give her up, he won't even reply to your letters."
"Gods, I wish I could storm his camp. But I'd be putting Beth at risk, attacking the very camp I wish to extricate her from. I want to wring her bloody fool neck, but I don't want her to be hurt or killed."
Billings began to laugh, a soft chortle at the incongruity of Benjamin's statement.
"Shut it," Benjamin punched Billings arm lightly, more a cuff than a punch. "Damned little beast, what am I to do with her?"
"What yer planning," Billings replied, sobering. "Get her to her husband, let him deal with her."
"And when he turns her out 'cause her cub is a red-head?" Benjamin growled.
"Well, then, she'll just have to go to be sequestered with Mrs. Selton and Mrs. Putman," Billings shrugged. "It's an embarrassment and all, if the marriage ends, but it wouldn't be the first time it's happened to a great family."
"It's never happened in mine," Benjamin curled his lip.
"No, yer were a saint when ye were giving the widow Selton a good goin' over," Billings challenged Benjamin. "How long was that goin' on for, years? And ye never did marry her."
"Shut it," Benjamin muttered, sullen.
"And now ye're engaged but ye ain't decided if ye'll marry her. Ye could've gotten her with child, ye know. She might be with child even now, ye haven't seen her in so long nor have you heard aught about her, only about your little ones. She could be out here," Billings placed his hands a yard out from his stomach, mimicking a heavily pregnant woman.
"And that could be Bordon's, as much as it could be mine," Benjamin said, fury entering his voice once more. "I do take your meaning, however. I am not a saint, nor have I ever pretended to be. I do, however, expect my children to behave in a manner that becomes them, not to act as I myself have done."
"Ah, do as I say, not what I do?" John chortled again.
"Just so," Benjamin said. "Didn't I tell you to shut it?"
"Twice now. But since when do I take orders from you?" Billings asked, still laughing. Benjamin cast him an incredulous look, which Billings waved off with his hand, "Yeh, yeh, yer the Colonel and I'm the Captain. But I just pretend to take yer orders," Billings said nonchalantly, "ye know, to make it look good. For the sake of the men and all. So ye appear all grand and in command, like, you know, in front of the others."
"Oh, gee now, my thanks," Benjamin said, shaking his head, a small smile quirking his lips. "Remind me not to bring my problems to you next, won't you? You've been no bloody help to me whatsoever."
Before Billings could frame a reply, a "taaaw, taaaw", sounded in the trees, Benjamin could just hear the heron's call coming a few hundred yards away to his left. He placed the stick down and rose slowly, Billings rising with him, all joking thrown aside. Herons were daytime birds, they slept at night. Which was why Benjamin had chosen it as the warning call, so that the sentry furthermost from camp could sound the alarm, without alerting approaching enemy, that their attempt to fall on Benjamin's camp had been discovered.
The call was sounded again, with far more urgency than the first. It sounded from the east this time. The enemy were closing, from two directions at once.
"Abandon camp," Benjamin called, rushing headlong into the rain toward his own mount, not bothering to gather his belongings. "Now, now!" He whispered frantically. To scream at his men would be to tell the enemy that he knew they were there. If that happened, the enemy would panic and rush in all the faster and possibly pen Benjamin in the camp. John and the other men raced for their mounts, even as the call sounded again, this time from the south. Three directions at once. They had been betrayed, they had to have been. But the north was still clear, or Mr. Smythe would have sounded the alarm from his position, also. "Christ," Benjamin muttered as he frantically untied his reins, his fingers slipping on the wet rope. They were surrounded, the only way open to them was north. "Scatter," he commanded as he vaulted into the saddle. "Northward!" His men, including Abel Rogers, began galloping toward the creek, rushing past Benjamin and Billings. They wasted no time themselves, spurring their mounts onward, leaping toward the safety of the north side of the creek. It was easily forded if one was careful enough. Benjamin cursed at the time wasted but the need for caution was great; if Thunder set his hoof even slightly wrong, he could twist his ankle and come up lame.
"And wouldn't William give me fits over that?" He whispered, patting the Arab's mane and speaking soothing words. And then he was across, and the need for cautious footing lessened. He gave Thunder his head, hoping the horse could see better in the dark and sheeting rain than he could himself. He held on for dear life as the Arab vaulted forward into the trees, thundering along trails. Benjamin laid across the horses neck, knowing a low hanging branch could knock him clean from the saddle. He did not stop to see who might be closing in on him, nor did he consider how his position had been discovered. Those were problems for later. For now, all that mattered was getting his ten and himself away and to safety.
Shots rung out all around him; flares of light as if from a hundred sidearms. None of his men had pulled their rifles; that was enemy fire, balls whizzing over head. Benjamin pulled Thunder up short, eyes scanning the darkness all around him. He had not heard Smythe sound the alarm, no heron call had sounded from the north, therefore Benjamin had assumed the way was clear. His instinct proved incorrect, as men began to emerge from the trees, tall dark shadowy forms on their horses, sparse light glinting from their firearms, all of which were levelled into Martins' small troop. Which meant Smythe, the sentry, was either dead, or bound and trussed up like a pig to prevent him warning Benjamin.
"Damn and blast it," Billings muttered to Martin's left, twisting his mount first this way then that, searching for a break within the approaching hoard of British Dragoons. It was useless, they were utterly surrounded.
"Lay down your weapons," a firm voice instructed. "You are surrounded. There are two hundred of us, you will not pass us. Not this time."
A hushed silence began to fall amongst Martin's ten, broken only by the snorts and whinnies of their mounts. They began to back into a circle, all facing outward, all pulling their rifles, all of them waiting Benjamin's command. The Colonel thought furiously - the Britisher might have been lying about his numbers. A ploy, so that Benjamin would think it would be a hopeless job, trying to flee. Two hundred, just for him? Then again, they were desperate to catch him. Perhaps it was not so foolish to believe there were that many after all. And if they did have that number, all of them closing in from all sides, they would have this place surrounded five men deep.
"Sir..?" One nervous militiaman asked to the right of him. Benjamin tightened his lips, thinking hard. His men faced outward in a full circle, all of them with their rifles loaded and aimed into the rain, ready to defend. It would be a fools errand, for him to command they fire, it would mean the death of every single one of them. His eyes tried to pierce the darkness, he strained his ears, but all he could hear was the steady rain and the sounds of horses, so many horses bearing down through the woods, hoofbeats pawing the ground, the jingle of tack. He really was surrounded and any attempt to escape or defend would prove deadly.
"Hold!" He commanded his men.
"Martin, is it?" The Britisher called, coming forward slowly, his dark form seemed to be glancing over his shoulder to ensure he was well reinforced. Martin did have a reputation. Martin's tight circle closed tighter.
"So me friends call me," Billings called back, urging his horse forward. "You may call me 'Your Highness'." Benjamin laughed softly; as did the Britisher, though his rang with contempt.
"I do not believe I shall, Sir," the pistol was put away, there was no further need for it. Not with so many of his fellows still aiming their muskets. "Please instruct your men to stack their weapons."
"Whatever for?" Billings asked with mock surprise.
"You have surrendered to me, have you not?" Came the incredulous reply.
"I never said any such thing," Billings said. He turned to Benjamin. "Did I say were were surrendered, John?"
"Nah, you didn't," Benjamin put on his best John Billings imitation. "I never heared ye say anythin' such like that at all, none."
"I don't sound like that," John muttered under his breath. Benjamin laughed softly. Using a louder voice, Billings called out. "Here now, what assurances do I have from you, that would entice me to consider surrendering?"
"I have the honour to be Lieutenant Robert Whitty, of His Majesties British Dragoons and Tarleton's Legion. With the authority Colonel Banastre Tarleton bestowed upon me, I hereby assure you that you will be treated according to your rank, as per the Rules of War, if you come along peacefully."
Benjamin sighed and shook his head, rain sloughed from the brim of his tricorn. He was extremely disappointed to discover the person who had caught him, was an Officer who had stayed in Benjamin's own home. Whitty knew him and would be able to identify him as soon as there was enough light to see by.
"Hear that, my boys? If we come along peaceful like, we won't be roughed by this lot," Billings called, not realising their game was almost done. There probably hadn't been any point to begin with, except to tweak the Britisher's nose and make him look a fool. It wasn't as though Benjamin could have escaped somehow, with Billings impersonating him. Billings turned back to the Officer, "tell me, Robbie me lad, where's old Ban?"
"Colonel Tarleton," Lieutenant Whitty corrected, outraged, "will be along shortly, I've sent word to him of your capture. The Colonel will lay the same opportunity before you as I have done, though I warn you now, he has far less tolerance for fools than I do."
"Nicely said," Billings said. "Boys, lower your weapons."
Not a single one of Benjamin's men moved, none lowered their aim. Though Whitty could not see their faces, he could see that their rifles were still levelled outward, toward his own men and toward himself. It made him nervous, Benjamin saw, and the Officer began to back up his mount.
"Now, why ain't ye listenin' to me?" Billings called with mock severity. "I'm Benjamin Martin! I's your commander, like! Lower your weapons."
Again, none moved. Ordinarily they would not hesitate to obey Captain's Billings commands, but they also knew him well enough to understand he was trying to rattle the British Officer. And it was working. Whitty backed away a full five feet. Colonel Martin had not sanctioned the command, it was his place to surrender, not Captain Billings. There was a rustle further back in the woods, the glow from a light source rounded a tree and was suddenly in view and drawing closer. Banastre Tarleton, Benjamin sensed. With the firebrand lighting up the trees for yards around it, Benjamin could finally see that in that section alone, there was at least twenty Dragoons. In that small section alone. Firebrands - weak spluttering flames because of the rain - were being lit now further back in the trees all around him, lighting the scores of mounted Dragoons. Getting past them would have been like trying to wade through a pool of sharks. Deadly, and useless.
"Lower your rifles," he called out, voice ringing with command. The militiamen obeyed immediately, Whitty's eyes swung toward the dark form that was Benjamin, even under the cover of night, the Colonel could sense the Lieutenant's surprise. "Stack them." He commanded. To Whitty, Benjamin announced, "I will discuss the terms with Tarleton."
"As you wish," Whitty's voice was a growl, frustrated at being duped. The first firebrand was closer now, Benjamin could make out the riders faces, and he saw Tarleton himself amidst their number. Only moments passed by before Tarleton was upon him, riding up boldly to Benjamin, while Benjamin's men were dismounted and stacking their weapons against a tree. Tarleton took this in at a glance and correctly assumed that Benjamin had surrendered. Light from the firebrand bathed their faces.
"Good work, Whitty," Banastre said, nodding down at the militiamen. "Well done."
"Thank you, Sir," Whitty replied, saying nothing of what had transpired before Banastre's arrival. He would not admit to being made to look a fool.
"So," Benjamin folded his arms across his chest. "How do you expect to explain this one to Beth, hmm?"
"You think I kept this from her?" Banastre scoffed softly. "Do be serious. News of this will be rife through camp - it's not something I could hope to keep secret. She knows I was coming after you, Martin."
"And she's forgiving, is she?" Benjamin replied, feeling the stab keenly. "Doesn't mind at all, that her own father is being taken captive?"
"I had to give her all sort of promises for your wellbeing - I don't like to see her upset. And no doubt she's praying right now that I miss my mark," Banastre smiled. "But she's a soldiers mistress, Sir. She understands my obligations."
Benjamin drew a shuddering breath, his fists curled. But he knew better than to strike the smugness from Tarleton's face. "To business," he declared, one Colonel to the other. "I, Colonel Benjamin Martin of the Continental Army have given to Lieutenant Robert Whitty my surrender, on the condition that myself and those in my unit are treated according to our rank, as per the Rules of War. He made these promises on your behalf. Will you honour them?"
"I will indeed," Banastre drew himself up. "You will be escorted to Lord Cornwallis and will be an… honoured guest… at Winnsboro."
"An honoured guest, and my quarters will be the gaol house, I assume?" Benjamin arched an eyebrow. "And my men?"
"The prison ships; though some will hang," Banastre said without missing a beat. Benjamin drew a sharp breath of dismay, many a prisoner had died on those ships and as for hanging… No one survived that! Worry rippled amongst the men.
"You can not hang them, Sir. You said you would honour our accord. My men are to be treated according to their rank -" Benjamin began, only to be cut off by Banastre, who was growing impatient and desired to be on his way, no doubt to parade his prisoner before Cornwallis and receive the resulting pats on the back.
"And those who have rank shall be," he said, voice blunt. "Many of these do not…" He smiled, there was no warmth in it. "They are naught more than common criminals, murdering and pillaging. And they will be punished as such," he glanced over at Martin's men, all of whom exchanged bleak looks. "Militia are murderous traitors and I will treat with them as the criminals they are."
"Tarleton," Benjamin began, pushing Thunder forward a step. Only to be suddenly confronted with fifty muskets, pointed at his head. Without looking at Tarleton's Dragoons or their deadly firearms, he tightened his lips, eyes fixed on Tarleton.
"You understand then, do you?" Banastre asked, jutting his chin toward his men, all of whom were ready to fire at Martin. "It's about bloody time. Let us be clear. Your men have broken the law. They are traitors to the Crown. They will hang, Martin. If you have Regulars amongst you - proper soldiers on the Continental establishment, say so now. They will be escorted to the prison ships. Junior Officers will accompany you to Winnsboro. The rest will hang. I see nothing ambiguous in this, no reason for you to be confused."
"Now listen here, you damned pup!" Benjamin growled, his vision washing with red as rage surged along his veins. "You have no right to hang any damned person in my company! If you are taking me to Cornwallis, I vow, I will lay this case before him and demand justice!"
"Lord Cornwallis has imbued me with the authority to do as I see fit," Tarleton shrugged, unconcerned. "Name your Officers, Martin."
"So that you'll hang the rest?" Benjamin's eyes darted to his men, glancing into each terrified face in turn. None of them were Officers or Regulars - none of them were Continentals. They were all militiamen, farmers who had left their farms and taken up arms against England. If Cornwallis had given Banastre Tarleton such authority, then he was fully within his right to hang the lot of them. "They all are," Benjamin announced, deciding that the only way around the issue was to make Continental enlistments of all his men, and hope that General Burwell did not drag him over hot burning coals later. "Captain Billings," he said, of the militia Captain he had just now formally risen to proper Continental. "Captain Miller." He continued, deciding it was not enough to raise the men to be Regulars, they must be Officers if they were to accompany him to Winnsboro and escape the prison ships. "Lieutenant Scott," he pointed, thinking fast as he applied proper military titles upon them all, recruiting them to the Continentals from the militiamen they were and promoting them on the spot. Christ, Burwell was going to give him fits over this… "Sergeant Skunk -"
"Skunk?" Banastre folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle, eyes bright with amusement, fully aware of what was taking place before him. He had to hand it to Benjamin Martin, he was always good entertainment.
"Sergeant is too low," Billings whispered frantically and Skunk nodded emphatically. He did not want to be sent to the prison ships. Then again, at least he was escaping a hanging now, and of that, he was only too grateful.
"Try for another Lieutenant, perhaps," Banastre suggested in a lazy, bored tone. "Lieutenant… Skunk," he said in such a pompous way, Benjamin wanted to smash his jaw in. Banastre's men appreciated the joke, his Junior offers laughed heartily.
"Lieutenant Skunk," Benjamin ground out. "Second Lieutenant Danvers. Ahhh, Cornet Colt. Ensign Matthews, Cornet Hardwick -"
"Two Cornets in one troop?" Banastre arched an eyebrow. "And you're not even cavalry. Will wonders never cease. And all of these men are Officers," he ladled the word with scorn. "In which unit?"
"Mine, of course," Martin replied, relief coursing through him. "Of the Second Regiment of South Carolina."
"Nicely done, Martin. You've changed the fate of your men from a hanging, to a slow death on the ships," Banastre bowed low in the saddle.
"You said Officers would accompany me to Winnsboro!" Benjamin hissed, infuriated.
"Oh for goodness sake," Banastre snapped. "There is nothing forcing me to take these impromptu promotions seriously as it is. And if I did decide to honour them, the Rules of War are clear - they were traitors committing treason as civilians before this farce of announcing them as Continentals. I'm still entirely within my right to hang them, let alone send them to the prison ships."
"I'm begging you," Benjamin said, slowly, his heart in his voice. He edged closer carefully, offering no threat. Banastre lifted his chin. "I am begging you."
"I don't owe you anything," Banastre replied.
"Half of these men, Beth calls by name. The other half, she calls uncle first," Benjamin ground out, filled with emotion. Lord, to have any single one of them die… Banastre paused, his breath caught, words whipped away momentarily. His eyes darted toward the sober militiamen, all of whom were still standing, still looking more than a little worried. Uncles? Would it cause Beth pain, if he was to order their deaths? Should he care for that? These men were traitors, his path was clear.
But he had a choice… He had the authority to hang traitors on the very road he found them on, without bothersome and lengthy trials. But that did not mean he had to take that course of action every time. Perhaps this time, he should not. He had what he came for…
"Very well, your Officers will accompany you to Winnsboro, on the condition that I have your full cooperation on the journey. And I want no attempt at escape. I will have your word on both, before I show my mercy and accept this farce," he demanded and Benjamin stumbled over himself, giving his vow of honour, that he would cooperate, that he would not try to escape. Banastre accepted the vow, and as he twisted his horse, he heard Benjamin's ragged breath of relief behind him.
The rain began to ease. That was something, at least. Large drops still fell from the leaves overhead, though. So it might as well have still been pouring… The horses and soldiers milled in the woods. Though Banastre wished to set out immediately, the horses were tired and needed to be rested. He chafed at the time he needed to give them. And he worried at how long it was taking. He had all of his men on alert for the return of Benjamin's detachment. He had not forgotten about them; they might have been sent out to attack a British troop, or they might be returning at that very moment. Either way, Banastre was wary and on edge.
Although it would be some ten minutes longer before the horses were rested enough to begin the journey, he commanded that his Dragoons take up their general positions along the line, ready for riding. There were two hundred British Dragoons, which seemed like quite an impressively large guard to be escorting only ten prisoners, but when one of those prisoners was Benjamin Martin… Banastre was not about to take any chances. Martin's men, Banastre's prisoners now, were placed further away. Not quite at the rear, but far enough back that there were at least a hundred Dragoons between them and Martin, who was to ride where Banastre could keep an eye on him. No chances, no risks. Martin's men would be hard pressed to rescue him, should they return in time. And the ten prisoners had no chance of freeing their Commander. The thickest guard was placed on Benjamin himself, he was the important one. Banastre had lost prisoners before, rebels had laid ambushes in his path in order to gain their commanders back. He expected no less from Martin's lot of rebels, the ones who were out there, somewhere. At the moment, Benjamin himself was leaning up against a tree, arms folded across his chest, gazing about as if he hadn't a care in the world. And never mind that he'd been taken prisoner, never mind that his friends were so far back, with so many Dragoons between them, that he could not see a single one of them. Banastre approached him, Benjamin turned a lazy eye on him.
"So, Tavington's horse, hmm?" He jutted his chin toward the mount Martin had been riding, the black stallion Banastre had immediately recognised as the brute William favoured. "You'll have to tell me how you came to have Thunder in your possession."
"I captured Tavington," Martin boasted. "Whipped his back raw and stole his horse."
Banastre gaped like a fool, his mouth so wide and fly flew in. He choked and coughed, gagging and spitting out the offending bug, his lips twisted in a disgusted sneer.
"That's one hell of a story," he said, trying to pretend as though the incident with the fly had not just happened. "Though I doubt the validity of it."
"You asked," Benjamin shrugged. "And I do have Thunder…"
Banastre gazed at the mount for a few moments. He did have Thunder, that much was true.
He's trying to frighten me, he thought. He seeks to rattle me. "Well, you're my captive now," he said with bravado. "And I do hope that little story of yours is a lie, for if you did whip Tavington, I might decide to take reprisal on his behalf."
"You? Avenge Colonel Tavington? You of all the people in the world?" Benjamin began to laugh until his side hurt, he slapped his thigh, chortling. Banastre shot him an offended look, not quite certain what to say in retort. "Whose the father?" Benjamin asked then, the abrupt question freezing Banastre where he stood. "Tavington's? Or is she carrying your bastard?"
Stomach churning, Banastre turned on his heels and strode away. He needed to know where Martin had sent his men, but he was driven by a deeper need now. A deeply chilling question had seized hold of him. How the devil did Martin know that Beth was pregnant? He chewed the inside of his lip.
"Whitty," he called, voice calm and quiet even as he wound his way through his Dragoons toward the Lieutenant. He had to step carefully in the mud and mire underfoot, he felt his boots would slip with each step.
"Yes, Sir?" Whitty came trotting over. Benjamin was surrounded by two score of Banastre's Dragoons, all of them with their muskets drawn, many of them searching into the night for signs of an enemy rescue attempt. Just as Banastre had commanded they do; they took their duty seriously.
"When we return to camp, we will need to begin a cleansing," Banastre said firmly, eyes fixed on Benjamin. There were firebrands placed throughout the clearing, throwing enough light for them to see by. Benjamin was ignoring his guards again now, and he sat down against the massive oak, pulled his tricorn from his head and made as if ready to fall asleep.
"A… Cleansing?" Whitty asked, blinking.
"We have a spy among us, possibly more than one. Planted there by Martin himself, I do not doubt," Banastre announced, eyes on the enemy Colonel.
"No…" Whitty breathed. "Are you certain?"
"He knew of Beth's pregnancy. How could he have learned of it, unless the information came from my camp? He has spies among us, I want them routed and hanged, each and every one of them."
Whitty handed Banastre a cup of heated broth, then, but he nodded slowly, accepting the command. Banastre drank the rest of the broth, then returned to Benjamin.
"I would like to know where the rest of men are, Colonel Martin," he said with deceptive politeness.
"You've taken them prisoner, Tarleton," Benjamin replied, frowning. Banastre drew a slow, long suffering breath.
"I am speaking of the detachment you sent out earlier," he said, eyes fixed on Martin's face, searching. He saw Martin's expression change, from insolent, to a flare of worry, quickly stifled.
"I don't know what you are talking about," Martin said. Banastre did not even have it in him to be angry, he'd known Martin would try to deny it. He wanted Banastre to be unwary in his triumph, as if he could not possibly know about the force that might yet be able to relieve him of his precious captive.
"I was given correct information, Colonel," Colonel Tarleton began. "From a reliable source. Now, if you recall, only a few moments gone, you gave me your word of honour that you would cooperate. Will you fail me at the first test? Are your men's lives worth so little to you?" He arched an eyebrow, his voice reasonable even as he threatened the lives of Martin's officers. Martin stared back, his lips tight and bloodless.
"Colonel!"
Banastre turned and saw several Dragoons riding toward him.
"We shall continue this discussion in a moment," he threatened Martin, before turning back to his Dragoons.
One Private Abel Rogers was bought before Banastre, dragged along by a Cornet who had had the wherewithal to question how an infantryman had come to be on this excursion, when Banastre had bought out only his Dragoons.
"I thought it passing strange," the Cornet said, after explaining why he'd bought the infantryman forward.
"And so it is," Banastre drawled, eyes taking Abel in from head to toe. He was wearing the uniform of a British Legion infantry foot soldier."State your business, why are you come here? Do you have a message from camp?"
The infantryman's eyes flickered toward Benjamin Martin, as if appealing for help. Banastre saw Colonel Martin begin to rise, a look of stark concern on his face. Banastre did not fail to see it, nor did he notice Abel's constant darting looks.
"So..." Banastre began, fury firing through his blood. "This is the reason you stayed behind while the rest of your force went onward," he said to Benjamin. "You were waiting for your little spy?" Abel's face blanched at the word spy, but as he failed to deny it, Banastre's certainty only grew. As did his anger. "Tell me Martin, does Beth call this one 'uncle', too?" He mocked. "Or cousin… Or third cousin removed from my left foot…" he drawled, finishing with a soft laugh.
"No, but she does call him friend," Benjamin replied, moving forward slowly. There was no point denying that Abel Rogers was a spy - Banastre already knew and it would only make the situation more dire. He should have feigned ignorance. Abel should not have glanced at him with such terror, face pleading for help. They might have had a chance, if not for that. He stepped forward, flanked by Tarleton's wary Dragoons. There was only one thing for it now, to surge on ahead. "I will admit it, he is one of my men. As such, he should be placed with the others you've captured tonight."
"You can not be serious," Banastre said, voice a whisper in the woods. He stared at Benjamin, incredulous. He'd found a spy in his ranks, and this fool thought he'd simply place him with the other prisoners? Good God, over his dead body.
"He is Beth's friend," Benjamin tried again, always trying. "They grew up together and -"
"You've already used that one, old man," Banastre said, voice flat. "It worked the first time, but it will not do. Not in the face of treason, when my own camp has been infiltrated." To the Cornet, he commanded, "hang him."
"No!" Benjamin cried, pushing forward. He barely made it a single step before the Dragoons guarding him dragged him back. Abel, panic stricken, was seized and dragged over to a tree with thick, low hanging branch. The Dragoons began to gather, the prisoners shouted and called out, begging to know what was happening. They were placed further back and away from Martin; they could not see a thing. Benjamin continued to bellow and yell, thrashing against the hands holding him. Banastre turned his back on him. His men had swung into action, a thick rope was thrown over the branch where it coiled twice, and one fellow was tying the end of it into a loop. Soon, the noose was ready. Martin watched, aghast, as Abel was forced onto a log placed on the ground beneath the rope, and the noose forced over his head.
"Colonel Martin, please!" Abel cried. Benjamin felt a twisting in his guts. Banastre turned to Benjamin, preferring to watch his face rather than Abel's, whose was not even covered by a scarf or sack.
"I will not suffer spies in my ranks," Banastre said to the helpless Colonel. Then he gave a simple gesture, and the log was kicked out from beneath Abel's boots. He heard the log roll across the forest floor, heard the snap of the rope as it was suddenly pulled taut. Heard Abel's boots kicking together at the heels, heard the strangling noises. He saw Martin's face crumble, the Patriot Colonel bent over himself, pressing his hands to his knees as he keened. And then all was silent. Banastre whispered something in Whitty's ear, and the Lieutenant strode off into the woods. All the while, Benjamin stared at Banastre. Benjamin was on his knees before the enemy Colonel. It felt too much like obeisance. With the desire to do murder churning his stomach, Colonel Benjamin Martin straightened to his full height, glaring with hatred and grief.
Banastre approached him, face cold and set. He waited before speaking, waited so long, that Benjamin began to feel the first stirrings of misgivings wind through the hatred. Whitney was returning, with ten Dragoons, each one shoving one of Benjamin's men ahead of them. Benjamin watched warily as each of his men was forced to their knees, their hands tied behind their backs. A single Dragoon stood behind each prisoner. As one, the Dragoons drew their sabres.
"Do not think to use Beth against me again," Banastre finally said, voice colder than the deepest winter night. "If I can take her own father prisoner; you could not possibly guess at what I will do to your men, if my hand is forced. That farce before protected them while my mind was clouded over her, but my mind is clear now. You have cleared it," he said, stabbing his finger at Martin's chest. He had to look up at the taller Colonel, which was galling to Banastre usually. But just then, fury made him feel the taller. "I will not tolerate spies in my ranks," he searched Martin's face by the glow of a firebrand, Benjamin's eyes continually darted to his men, his worry that they'd all be murdered right there in the mud evident on his face. Banastre continued, "and I will not tolerate your schemes and designs. You have broken our accord, and my patience is at an end. You will tell me where you sent your detachment," he lifted his finger, and the Dragoons lifted their sabres, rested the blade along the side of the prisoners necks. "Or regardless of your sham promotions to the Continental establishment, every prisoner here will be sliced down the middle, their blood will soak into the mud." He waited, unblinking, giving nothing away as Benjamin stared at his men. Abel's body was still hanging from the trunk, rope creaking. "How many more of yours shall be executed tonight, hmm? All ten?" Banastre laughed softly. "I think I'll begin with your Captain. Billings is his name, yes? Fond of him, aren't you?" Banastre taunted. Benjamin's face drained of colour.
"I heard tell of the caravan en-route to supply your camp," Martin said, voice ragged. "I sent the detachment to… disrupt its path."
Banastre drew a sharp breath and held it, he counted to twenty as his mother had taught him. It never had worked to sooth his temper, but he tried just the same. He needed to intercept the rebels, not stay here and vent his fury. They had a head start of what… an hour, perhaps? He calculated. Depending on where the caravan was on the road just then, they might have already attacked it.
"Make ready!" He commanded. They would move out immediately, whether the horses were rested or not. The Company mounted, the prisoners returned to the rear, and the subdued Colonel Martin took his place toward the front. They passed Abel's body, still strung up in the tree, and began thundering toward the Post Road.