A MASSIVE REWRITE OF CAUGHT BETWEEN THREE COLONELS

by Rosemary Tarleton

With varying intent, Colonel's Tavington, Tarleton and Burwell vie for the affection of Beth, daughter of Gentleman and Rebel - Benjamin Martin. Meanwhile, Captain Bordon sets foot on his own life destroying path. Friendships, threatened. Loyalties, questioned. Reputations, destroyed. Can lives be repaired after the storm? STRICTLY ADULTS ONLY. MATURE CONTENT.

126. Chapter 126 - Severed Ties

Chapter 126 - Severed Ties:

"Steady, boys," Mark called softly down the line. "We've got greater numbers than they. They will give us no trouble at all."

The command to be still, to be ready, to have courage was repeated to all of the militiamen strung through the woods. Mark wished he had Benjamin's knack for speeches, his men were looking somewhat fearful. Militiamen were known to dessert when the fire got too hot, but he was certain by now, that these would not. The ten men had been handpicked by Benjamin himself, and had proven to be steadfast. It'd certainly been a panic at Mrs. Rutledge's plantation when the sentries came rushing in to report that the Green Dragoons were coming. But these men held to their courage and they packed what they could in the time they had and they fled the campsite at Mark's side and hadn't left him since. He must have done something right, for all his doubts.

Farshaw was further down the line, hidden within the trees.

Gabriel, Thomas and three dozen more militiamen had joined him, increasing Mark's ten to nearly fifty, for the purpose of capturing Bordon. Let Gabriel think what he would, Mark thought. He'd be killing Bordon, not bloody capturing, and that was an end to it.

They were all hidden in the trees, on either side of the road. How hard was it to mount an ambush anyway? As long as they were quiet. As long as they didn't spring the trap until the Dragoons were neatly in its snare.

As long as Cilla doesn't get hurt… Gods. The worry of that had Mark quaking. He shifted on his heels, fretting. She should be easy to spot, she was sure to be the only woman travelling with the company. Benjamin's men had been warned to be excruciatingly careful of her. Farshaw though… He was like a poorly loaded rifle, ready to misfire in Mark's hands. He wanted Bordon, so very badly. Well, so did Mark, for that matter. But Farshaw… He was like a salivating wolf with fangs bared. Insane with his hatred for Bordon. Farshaw was a good shot, though. Mark had been riding with him for long enough to know that. And he'd be as careful of Cilla as her own cousins were bound to be.

There were nearly fifty militiamen, ready to seize the twenty Dragoons bearing down on them now.

Gripping his tomahawk in one hand, he felt with the other for his carbine. It lay on the ground just beside him, loaded and ready for killing. He'd pick it up when he could hear the Dragoons horses. Damned heavy things, rifles. No point aiming it just yet. When Mark received news that Cilla was looking for him in the place he'd made camp for a few nights, he'd rushed back as swiftly as he could. If only horses could fly.

When he reached his camp, he'd found a burial mound that hadn't been there when he left that place the day before. In a panic and fearing the grave contained Cilla, he'd commanded his men to dig them up. Buried in one grave beneath all that dirt, they'd found Morgan's body, and another. Those had been a disturbing sight. Mark had never met the man himself, but one of his men recognised and identified one of the bodies as being Old Morgan. Poor bastard had been shot in the chest. And the other body - this one had his head blown in. None of Mark's men had recognised him. Then again, none had wanted to look too closely. It'd been a damned grisly sight. He could only assume that the second fellow had been an acquaintance of Morgan's, the pair of them had been helping to get Cilla to safety. And they were killed by Bordon's Dragoons, both of them.

Mark tried to push the disturbing memory away. Horrid, absolutely horrid. How terrifying must it have been for Cilla, to witness her rescuers murdered so foully? And to be captured again by the very man she'd been trying to escape. Mark had several trackers with him, experienced men who could read the forest floor and surrounding trees for information as one would read a book. It'd been clear to them that Cilla and her escort had stopped there - likely for the night. A foolish thing to do - they never should have stopped. Then again, perhaps they hadn't realised that Bordon had followed them? If only he had stayed, Gods, if only. But how could he have known that Cilla was on her way, trying to find him? Gods, what had Bordon done to her, to make her run from him? They'd built a bonfire outside the cabin, a smaller fire in a brazier inside. It was likely that Cilla had been in that cabin, when Bordon came upon the campsite. The damned bonfire would have drawn him there - a blazing beacon, a torch that led Bordon right to Cilla. He killed the two men, and when Cilla fled, he chased her down like a wolf hunting a squirrel.

Despite Mark's best efforts, despite the pace he'd set to return to his camp, Bordon had reached Cilla first. God above, she'd tried to flee, but that monster had chased her down again. The trackers had told Mark - they'd shown him the small footprints leading away from the camp - followed by larger footprints - Bordon's. He'd caught her, that much was certain. What had been done to her? Mark had followed the tracks. He'd found scraps of her clothing strewn all through the woods, scattered, torn. It made him feel sick.

His stomach roiled. What had Bordon done to her, when he'd gotten hold of her again? Had he punished her, for trying to escape him? Mark's fingers tightened around the tomahawk. His blue eyes narrowed, his face grew stark. The man nearest to him in the bushes took one look at him and then edged away, wary. He couldn't know the depths of Mark's anger, however. Or his hatred. His thirst for vengeance. His need to have his little girl safe, for once and for all. His girl. Raped. Beaten. He could still hear her screams…

Gods.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried not to weep. Forced back bile before his fury could be spewed all over his boots. "This is my sacrifice, papa," she'd said. Then she'd been dragged into another cell, close enough to make sure Mark could hear her screams. Terrible things had been done to her there. By Bordon. By Bordon…

"Twenty rods, sir," one of his men whispered. Mark's eyes snatched open. Twenty rods away. He'd soon have his little girl back. And he'd have his vengeance. A few minutes more, and he'll put an end to Bordon, too. For daring to harm Mark's daughter. For murdering Morgan. And the other fellow who'd tried to help Cilla. Mark whispered a prayer for both men. They made the greatest sacrifice of their lives, in helping her. And all for nothing. She was in Bordon's clutches again. Mark had been so close to rescuing her, so near he'd been able to taste it. But Bordon had thwarted him. Not again, however. Not this time. He'd have her back now, only a few minutes longer.

He could hear the Dragoons, though he could not see them yet. A few minutes more, and he'd put an end to Cilla's nightmare. His fingers trembled on the tomahawk. The Dragoons came thundering down the road. Mark already knew they had prisoners, his scouts had told him. Now he saw for himself. The captives - five of them - tied to the horses. Mark had given the command that they not be harmed. Any prisoner of the British, a captive of Bordon himself, must be Mark's friend, wasn't it so? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Mark could see them now. The despised Dragoon helmets, fur flying. Great cloaks streaming in the wind. Horses galloping hard, directly into the ambush.

No Bordon at the head. And no Cilla to be seen. Mark lurched to his feet and screamed his rage, the loaded carbine coming up with him. Horses halted, they reared; panic, confusion, Dragoons yelled out, cursing from the sudden fright. Mark didn't care. He was the storm. The fury. The loaded carbine. He rushed in, and his men rushed in with him.

A few moments, it took. The Dragoons didn't stand a chance. One or two managed to get a shot off with their pistols but Mark's numbers were greater and within seconds, Dragoons were being dragged from their horses and into the mud. Relieved of all weapons, pistols and sabres, even the smallest pairing knife. They were pushed and prodded into a large circle and held at gunpoint. The Dragoon's prisoners were untied, but held for questioning. Throughout it all, Mark paced; like a stalking panther, back and forth, fingers still curled around his firearm and tomahawk. He must have looked a sight. His men soon identified the Officers and three were bought before him. He recognised one.

To this one, he spoke.

"Where is Bordon?" He spat, striding up and stabbing the man in the chest with the business end of his rifle. "Where is my daughter?"

As Mark studied the flustered, nervous Dragoon intently, he searched his memory for the Officers name. Dalton, that was it. Damned bastard had stayed in Mark's home, with Tavington and Bordon, doing only God knew what with Mark's wife and daughter. He saw it when recognition flared over the man's face.

"You're… You're dead!" Ensign Dalton gasped. He was already breathing heavily, from the hard ride and the fright of being attacked so unexpectedly, subdued so completely. He stood there, stock-still, shocked to his core, and devoid of all weapons. Dragoons looked naked, with out their weapons. They looked far less impressive, far less intimidating.

They looked weak. Fragile.

Powerless.

Mark laughed. "You see?" He called to his men. "They're nothing to be frightened of. They are nothing," he repeated, eyes fixed on Dalton. He cocked his head. "Rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated. As you can see, I am very much alive," he stepped closer, hefted his tomahawk under Dalton's nose. "I want my daughter. I want you to tell me where she is. I'd also like to know Bordon's whereabouts," he spat the name with such hatred, Dalton had to wipe spittle from his cheek. "I'd very much like that. If you'd like to keep your nose," Mark pressed it closer. "You will tell me the things I wish to know."

"Uncle…"

Mark's lips tightened. Dalton's panic stricken gaze searched hopefully for the speaker, whose voice had a reproving ring to it. Gabriel Martin. Gabriel and Thomas both edged through the press until they were at Mark's side. Nicholas and Farshaw were both winding their way through the throng. Farshaw's face was screwed up, his green eyes sparking like flint. He looked as though he'd chewed something very unpleasant. He couldn't like Bordon's absence any more than Mark did. Too late. Again. Always too late.

"Uncle -"

"I am in charge here, Gabriel," Mark snapped, sensing Gabriel's dissent. He - Gabriel - would not allow harsh questioning of their prisoners, if he could stop it. Mark would not let him stop it. He was the fire. Hell, no, he was the Goddamned blazing inferno. "I will get what information I will from these men. You will not question my tactics," Mark's eyes hadn't left Dalton's face. He smiled unpleasantly. "Any more than this one questioned Tavington and Bordon, when they tortured me. When they tortured -" he cut short, thinking of Cilla. He ground his teeth. He didn't know what face he wore just then, but Dalton had become very wary indeed, he looked ready to wet his breeches. He would not reveal to Gabriel, what had been done to his daughter. The shame of it - her destroyed, murdered virtue. It would cut her to her very soul, if any one else knew of it.

"Where is my daughter?" He asked Dalton again.

"Mrs. Bordon -" Dalton began, but Mark cut him short.

"Call her that again, and you will lose more than your nose," he hissed, slashing the blade. Dalton cried out, his hands flew to his face. A grumbling ran through the Dragoons, was quickly quieted by Mark's men. The damage wasn't so bad - just a cut; a nick. When the frightened Dragoon realised he still had his nose, when he realised the cut was no worse than he'd get shaving, he lowered his hands, embarrassed. Terrified, and embarrassed. Blood ran down his cheek unheeded.

"He'd look far more fetching, without his nose," Farshaw said quietly at Mark's side. The remark was meant to be threatening. Dalton certainly took it as such. Mark could read his fear, etched all over his face.

"You'd like it if he were more fetching, wouldn't you Farshaw? We all know how much you fancy the men," one of the other Dragoon Officers shot back, twisting Farshaw's comment, hurling it back in his face. Dark laughter ran through the Dragoons. Mark stared at the Officer who'd made that awful remark, incredulous. Farshaw had confided in Mark, about bedding another man. It was rape, Farshaw had said, and Mark believed him. The Dragoons knew about Major Fallows. They all knew. Farshaw blanched. Did they think the youth had been willing? Appalling, disgusting, spiteful thing to say… Flippant. It was flippant, and all the more insulting for it. Farshaw had been raped, every bit as much as Cilla had been, Mark knew it for truth. A sudden thought occurred to him. If this bastard could speak so callously of Farshaw, did they make flippant comments about her attack also? His vision washed red. They were all rapists and murderers, every last one of them.

"Uncle, I don't think -" Gabriel interrupted his thoughts and Mark rounded on him.

"Gabriel, you will leave the questioning to me," he said, still not removing his eyes from Dalton.

"That man is a traitor and is wanted for murder," Dalton said, pointing at Farshaw. Where he found the stones to accuse Farshaw just then, Mark had no idea.

"As near as I can tell, your Fallows had it coming. If you think I will hand Farshaw over to you, you are very much mistaken," Mark spat. "In case it has escaped your notice, I have captured you. Not the other way around. I get to ask the questions, I get to deliver the torture, if you decide to be obstinate. Now. You were telling me where Miss Putman has been taken, Sir?" Mark addressed Dalton with mock politeness.

"Mrs… Miss… ah… she has been taken to Fresh Water," Dalton said, abandoning his attempt against Farshaw.

Mark drew in a ragged breath. "Fresh Water? He's taken her back to Fresh Water? Damn and bloody blast it to all hell!" Mark wanted to lash out, to vent his fury. To kill Dalton, who must have known what had been done to Cilla that day, yet he'd done nothing to stop it. Gods, he wanted to hurt someone… He'd thought for certain he'd been chasing Bordon down, that the Major would not be far. Therefore, Cilla would not be far either. Had he been chasing a detached force of Dragoons all this time? He recalled the confusion of tracks back at the campsite, at the cabin. The trail had been difficult to read, the muddy ground all mashed up. But what had been clear was, the trail had continued on northward. None of them had noticed tracks leading back toward the south. Why would Bordon split with them there, why would he return to Fresh Water? Christ Above!

"Because Mrs… ah, that is, Miss… Well, she was in need of a doctor, so she was rushed back to Fresh Water while we were sent in search of the brigands," Dalton explained. Mark's head came up. He hadn't even realised he'd spoken that last out loud. Was he losing his mind? Giving voice to his thoughts, without even realising.

"Brigands," Gabriel repeated. He planted the butt end of his rifle into the ground and leaned on it. "And did you find them, Ensign?" He pointed at the ragged looking men Mark had demanded be untied. They stood in a rough circle, watching warily, uncertain as to what they should be doing. They looked like men who wanted to flee.

"That is them, Lieutenant Martin," Dalton replied. "You must not let them go."

"What need did she have of a doctor?" Mark snapped, speaking over Gabriel, who seemed ready to pursue this brigands nonsense. What did he care for brigands at a time like this? These men Dalton had captured were likely innocent anyway, men who'd been caught up in some Britisher design or other. Mark cared not.

"Ah, Sir?" One of Dalton's captives came forward before he could supply an answer. He was as ragged as the others, but was clearly their leader. The others huddled together, looking ready to take flight, while this man - their spokesman - came to stand before Mark. "Eddie Rousin's the name. I just want to thank ye for freein' us, like. Mighty good of ye, doin' that. These damned British, swoopin' in and collectin' up innocent men and when they can't pin no crime on 'em, they call em' brigand and take 'em in anyway. We ain't never stolen a damned thing in our lives. Was drinking over at Mosely's watering hole, getting more soused then I ever been, when this lot came thundering in. Roughed me and the others up real good and then tied us to the horses like we was nothing but pigs. It's mighty good of ye to be lettin' us go, though. I thank ye," he bobbed his head, hands spread in a gesture of gratitude as he began to back away, as if he intended to leave Mark to his business. Mark made no move to stop him, he was just as happy to have him gone, he had other matters to attend to. Eddie was saying, "we won't take up no more of your time, I'll round this lot up and we'll take our leave of you." He gave Mark a conspiratorial grin. "There was a nice plump pretty back at Moseley's who thought me smile was nice. Damned Dragoons came along a'fore I could get far with her. I be going back to her now. Besides, I'd rather put as much distance between meself and these Lobsterbacks as I can, if ye don't mind."

"Go back to your pretty in peace. These will not be released anytime soon," Mark assured the man. "They will plague you no more."

"My thanks, Sir," Eddie had reached his men by now and, certain that he would be allowed to leave, he offered a flourishing bow.

"Innocent! What rot!" Dalton cried, aghast. "They are brigands, they stand accused of murder and worse -"

"Enough!" Mark roared. "None of that is my concern -"

"With respect, Sir, it is very much your concern," Dalton interrupted. "You see -"

"Take them in hand," Gabriel commanded. "Do not let them leave." Rousin stopped dead, mouth falling open as the militia circled him and his men, rifles drawn. Mark rounded on Gabriel, giving him a foul look. Gabriel ignored it, he singled out ten of their men, to watch over the brigands. "Back with the others, Mr. Rousin," Gabriel commanded. "You will be questioned more fully in a moment." Mark swallowed hard, trying to tamp down his frustration. It'd been this way since the two units joined, when Mark found Gabriel and told him Cilla was trying to flee, that he might need help against Bordon's Dragoons. Mark was a Captain and Gabriel was a Lieutenant, the order of rank should have been clear. But Mark was a militia Captain, which was considered inferior to Officers on the Continental establishment. Gabriel did follow his orders for the most part, but only when it suited him. When it did not… in those instances, when Mark gave an order, Gabriel countermanded it. And when they joined forces, Gabriel's men had made it clear that it was Gabriel they followed, not Mark. And Mark's men did not answer to Gabriel - they followed their Captain. It was a right mess, and it was rearing its ugly head, Gabriel was doing it, yet again. Taking Dalton's prisoners back in hand, when Mark had made it clear he intended to turn them loose! Gabriel met and held his gaze. "I will not allow possible brigands and murderers free to plague the countryside. They will be questioned, uncle," he said. Mark knew that tone of voice - Gabriel would not budge on this. With a scowl, Mark turned back to Dalton.

"For Christ's sake, Dalton, for the love of everything holy in this world, you will tell me what has become of my daughter or by God -"

Dalton held up his hands, as one does when surrendering. He peered at Gabriel and the men, watching as Rousin's lot were prodded into a smaller circle and surrounded by militia. That seemed to satisfy the Ensign for now, Dalton looked vastly relieved, despite having gun wielding sentries keeping his own men under guard. "She developed a terrible ague of some sort, from being out in the cold all night, after being chased by those men. Major Bordon left here in all haste to return her to Fresh Water, where she would receive doctoring -"

"DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF MAJOR BORDON!" Mark roared, the scream splitting through the woods. Several birds took flight overhead. It was several moments before he could calm himself. All eyes were on him. The Dragoon prisoners. Rousin and his men. The militia. Farshaw. Watson. His nephews. He knew what they were thinking. That he was daft. Taken leave of his senses. He was not. He knew he was not. If they knew what had been done to Cilla… None would be questioning his actions now. His conduct. They'd understand entirely. He could not tell them, however. Not without revealing Cilla's shame. He would not tell a soul that his beloved daughter's virtue had been stolen, murdered, tortured from her by Major bloody Bordon. "Don't you dare speak as though he ever, EVER has her best interest at heart!"

Dalton snapped his mouth shut. Mark could not read the expression on the man's face and Dalton knew better than to speak at that moment. It was such a struggle, an absolute struggle, to keep his temper controlled. How did Benjamin do it? Christ, he could be in a murderous fury and still he managed to remain calm, in control. In order to do what needed to be done. Be like Benjamin. Calm. Control. The eye, instead of the storm. For now.

"My daughter took an ague," Mark found himself saying - calmly, for a wonder. "And Bordon was returning her to Fresh Water. Where do you imagine they would be on the road, by this time?" I'll catch up to him on the road. If I have to damned well fly, I'll devise a way to do so. Gods. I went the wrong way. The wrong way!

"Sir," Dalton licked his lips. "Mr. Putman, Major Bo - that is, ah, Miss Putman… She'd most certainly be at Fresh Water by now. Days ago, she would have reached there."

Mark gaped, his hold on his tomahawk weakened. Days. Gods. Was he really so far behind? Had word taken that long to reach him? Is that why the trail was so damned cold and confused? Morgan… And the other dead man - returned to their graves now - had they really been lying there for days before Mark found them? Mark had been following the trail to the north looking for Cilla, while at the same time, she was being carried back southward, she had already been returned to her prison. To her hell. Gods. Too late. Too late. Gabriel shifted at his side. Mark shot him a scowl, still sore at his intervention with Rousin and his men. Mark would see them free soon enough. As soon as he recovered from this latest blow. And what a blow it was. He could barely think, for the disappointment. For the fear. It'd gotten so bad for her that she'd tried to escape. And now she was captive again. What was being done to her? What new hell was she going through? He had to help her, he had to -

"Ensign, you said these men chased my cousin?" Gabriel's words sliced into his thoughts.

Had he? Dalton had said Cilla had been out in the cold all evening, 'after being chased by those men'. Slowly, he turned back to Rousin, his heart thudding in his chest like an enraged bull trying to break free of its pen. Rousin wasn't looking anywhere near as innocent now. He looked like a boy who'd been caught with his fingers in the jam jar. He took a full step back.

"Thank the Gods one of you is thinking clearly," Dalton snapped, shooting a glare at Mark.

"No more of that, Ensign. Not now. Just tell us what happened," Gabriel commanded. He handed Dalton a kerchief. Dalton pressed it to his face to stem the flow of blood. Mark could barely breathe. His eyes were fixed on Rousin, who was looking far less certain himself now. He looked downright terrified, as if realising he'd stepped into a very deep mire. Mark kept his eyes on him, even as Dalton spoke.

"I heard Mrs… Miss Putman's own account of it, in case any of you are foolish enough to think I'm lying. And no doubt she would report the same to you, given half a chance. That man," he pointed at Rousin. Who stared back, cheeks bloodless. He would not get far if he tried to run, not with ten rifles all sited on him and his men. "He stole from her," Dalton accused. "He intended to sell everything she owned, from her cape to her shift to her shoes. And then he was going to force himself on her. He made his intentions perfectly clear, your cousin was left in no doubt of it. It was only her own quick thinking that saved her from that fate."

The earth shifted beneath Mark's feet, tilting on its axis. "What did you say?" He breathed, stunned.

"I said these men should not go free," Dalton spoke slowly, carefully, crisply, as if to a child. "You of all the people in the world should not wish them free. I spoke truthfully, Sir. They are rapists and thieves and last night, your daughter was the target of both."

Rousin swallowed so hard, Mark heard the gulp from where he stood.

"If that is true, then these men will receive swift and certain justice," Gabriel said, voice hard and cold.

"Swift and damned certain," Thomas muttered, glaring at the brigands.

"But we will be the ones to exact it," Gabriel said to Dalton. "They will not be taken to Fresh Water, for you to put on trial. Will you give us the full account, as my cousin gave to you?"

"What will you do with them?" Dalton said, looking anguished. "They need to be punished, Sir."

"They will hang, Ensign. We will be no more gentle on them than you would have been," Gabriel's voice rang through the woods. A murmuring sprang up from the prisoners, a tension ran through them, a desperation to flee. "The full account, Sir," Gabriel said to Dalton.

"When we found Mrs… ah… that is, your cousin," Dalton began, still reluctant to call Cilla Mrs. Bordon in front of Mark Putman. "When we found her, she was in a wretched state. She'd concealed herself in the bowl of a tree and was frozen to the touch, wearing nothing more than her shift. Because he," Dalton pointed at Eddie Rousin. The blood had drained from Eddie's face, he was white as snow, now, and looking around frantically, searching for a way out. Because he'd just discovered that he was facing the family of the woman he'd attacked. He could see the guilt writ there, across his too pale face. Dalton continued, "had made two of his men hold her in place, while he relieved her of her clothing. Mrs. Bordon -" Dalton appeared quite angry now, too worked up to be so careful of how he named Cilla. "Said he folded each item of clothing as it was removed from her with excruciating care and that his men called out warnings not to let any of it be dirtied, as they would get less money for it."

Gabriel felt the blood rush to his face, heating him from the toes up, despite the chill afternoon. He exchanged a dark look with Thomas. He looked to his uncle, but received no help there. Mark was squatting, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. As if his legs would not hold him. His weapons lay uselessly on the ground beside him. Gabriel wished he could do the same. This account was a difficult thing to listen to, it was so damned hard, hearing of how Cilla had been treated. But there was not a doubt in his mind that it was true. Every word of it. Dalton's disgust was too true. Even Rousin himself gave away the truth of it. He stood there, saying not a word, staring frantically at the rifles, as if judging how far he'd get if he fled right now. If he was innocent, he'd not be looking for a way out.

"By the time she was standing before him in nothing but her shift, Mrs. Bordon had become certain of that man's intentions. It was in the way he looked at her, the things he was saying. And then he laid his hands on her -"

"Agh, dear God," Thomas groaned. He dropped his head into his hand, hiding his eyes. Was he weeping? Gabriel certainly felt like he might.

"I have it from Mrs. Bordon that he groped her breasts. She said she kicked him then, in the… well, you know," Dalton's voice lowered. "In the stones."

"Good girl! Christ, good girl!" Thomas gave a whoop. There was no doubt whatsoever that he believed Dalton's account also. Both had held Dalton and Brownlow under guard for the week that Tavington was in their father's clutches. Both youths had developed a grudging respect for the British Dragoon Officers and if Gabriel was to believe either man, it'd be Dalton, over Eddie Rousin.

"It weren't me!" Eddie Rousin called out. Fine time to finally find his voice. He'd waited too long for that, however. If he was innocent, he'd have said so earlier. Now, it was clear he was just grasping at straws, trying to free himself the only way he knew how. By lying his way out. "Tell 'em Dwight, Hank - ye too. Ye tell 'em. It weren't us!" Dwight and Hank exchanged a look but before either could speak, Gabriel spoke over them.

"You'll have a chance to speak in a moment," he snapped, taking charge while Mark was still incapable of it. He would conduct himself as his father would in this situation - he would hear both accounts fairly. Not that he'd believe anything Rousin had to say; but he'd do it. Watson poked Eddie in the chest with his rifle, hard enough to leave a bruise. A warning shove, to be silent.

"It did not go so well for her after that," Dalton said in a warning voice. Thomas stopped his capering and grew sober. "She told us that one of Rousin's men slapped her so hard she saw stars. And that it put Mr. Morgan in such a rage that he began to fight against the men restraining him. I think I left that out, sorry," he said, frowning. Gabriel was still trying to recover from the shock of Cilla being slapped. Rousin was listening hard, shifting restlessly, ever on the verge of protesting. Dalton continued as if Rousin was not there. "Morgan was being held by Rousin's men, they kept him back so he could not assist Mrs. Bordon as she was divested of her clothes… He somehow had a rifle - I don't think Mrs. Bordon saw how he got hold of one, but I would imagine he managed to snatch it off the brigands. He fired a shot at the one who slapped Mrs. Bordon, shot him right in the back of the head."

"Gods, that was the second body we found! We thought they were allies," Gabriel groaned. "That they were working together to help Cilla! We buried them together in the same grave!"

"Hardly that," Dalton snorted. "Morgan killed him and was killed in turn. Mrs. Bordon's nose was broken during it all." - Mark was making strangling noises deep in his throat as he clutched at his head and rocked on his heels. Gabriel shot him a look filled with sympathy. If he was having a rough time hearing this, how much harder would it be for Mark, Cilla's father? - "Morgan was shot later…" Dalton continued. "I've jumped around a bit, sorry. She said he screamed at her to run, because no one was holding her just then and she was able to flee. She said that she was not far into the woods when she heard another shot - the one that killed Morgan. She ran and ran, she said, and she said she heard Eddie Rousin screaming at his men to catch her -"

"Now, that weren't me!" Rousin could contain himself no longer. Watson rapped him over the head with a curled fist.

"Be silent or you will lose your tongue," the former Britisher warned. Rousin rubbed his head and glared at Watson, but as Watson had his carbine pointed directly at his chest, he subsided into sullen silence.

"She called you by name, you damned fool," Dalton snapped. "She said your name was Eddie Rousin!" He turned back to Gabriel. "She ran into the swamps. As I said, she was wearing only her shift, which Mrs. Bordon said facilitated her escape. It made it easier for her to run, unencumbered by skirts as she was. But then she turned her foot and sprained her ankle and when it was too painful for her to run further, she hid. The brigands searched for her. She could hear them in the woods, but she pressed herself into the bowl of a tree and they did not find her. She spent the night in the cold, with no blanket or cape or even her shoes. When we found her, she was barely coherent. Frozen almost to death. That's how she came to be sick. We helped her…" Dalton trailed off at the look on Mark's face, sensing correctly that Mark had no desire to hear of any supposedly heroic deeds done by Dragoons. Mark had pushed himself to his feet by now, his weapons again in hand. His face was livid. "When she was able, she told us the story. I heard every word. It is her report I give to you now, may Our Lord above strike me down now if I've said a single untrue word. She described Eddie Rousin so well, I've no doubt at all that he -" again Dalton pointed. "Is him. He even has the same name. We were instructed to find them and bring them to Fresh Water, where Mrs. Bordon could identify them. That is a formality only, however. I've no doubt at all that they are the ones. If you would allow me to continue my mission, I assure you, these men will be hung before the sun sets tomorrow eve."

"I never did what he's sayin'," Eddie announced, desperately wringing his hands and watching Watson's rifle warily. "I vow it on my honour, I never did. Not to your daughter, Sir. Reckon it was someone else."

"Someone else who matches your exact description as given to me by Mrs. Bordon herself?" Dalton asked, mocking. "If that is the case, then how did you come to have Mrs. Bordon's cape and dress in your possession? And the other items you stole from her person?"

"He has them?" Gabriel asked, voice grim.

"In his saddle bags," Dalton said firmly. "How did he come by those, if he is not the Eddie Mrs. Bordon spoke of?"

"I bought 'em. Like ye said, that other Eddie took 'em to sell 'em. I'm the fool Eddie who bought 'em, ain't that right, Dwight?" Eddie said to the man at his side. The one called Dwight said absolutely nothing. Eddie continued, "bought 'em for me wife. Didn't know they belonged to yer daughter," Eddie said to Mark, hoping to find a sympathetic ear in the man who'd been willing to free him before. But he was lying. They could all see it, every single one of them. No one would believe a story like that.

"Pushing co-incidence, is it not?" Dalton asked. "Do I really need to point out the faults in his story? He happened to come across another Eddie - who fits his description exactly - and this Eddie offers to sell items of clothing that he expected to fetch a grand price for, to a man who looks like he barely has two pence to rub together."

"No. There is no need to point out the faults in his story," Gabriel said. He looked to his uncle, a questioning glance. "They do need a fair trial, uncle. Will you question them or shall I?"

Mark grew very cold, his heart freezing over. "Mr. Rousin," he said, fixing his gaze on the brigands. "Tell me now for once and for all. Did you capture my daughter? Did you steal from her?" He paused, then whispered, "did you have intentions toward her person?"

"It weren't me," Eddie said again. "Tell 'em, Dwight. Tell 'em where we were. At the waterhole, that's where," Eddie answered for Dwight. "At Moseley's, with that pretty I tol' ye about. Aye, Hank?"

"If we tell ye the truth," the one called Hank asked Mark nervously, "will we get amnesty?" Eddie turned on Hank and smashed his fist in his face. Hank dropped like a stone, blood spurting from his now broken nose.

"I told the truth already!" Eddie screamed at the prone, howling man on the ground.

"Will any of the rest of you speak the truth of what happened that night? Dwight?" Gabriel asked the group at large, then addressed the one Eddie had called by that name. The men all looked to Eddie, who glared them to silence. Then they stared at their boots, obeying his unspoken command.

"Broke me nose, ye damned bastard," Hank howled. "It was him. It was all him!" He screamed, telling the truth without bothering to ask for amnesty now. "We was just goin' to take what those folks had. I weren't goin' to hurt her. But ye always have to get carried away, ain't it?" He pushed himself to his feet, blood poured from his nose, tears from his eyes. He balled his fists, a fighter ready for the fight.

"Shut it, Hank!" Eddie roared.

"Or what? Ye'll beat me? Fuck ye. I'm goin' to hang now, 'cause of ye! Ye always have to do it, ain't? Have to get yer end away if there's a woman in the company. Especially if the girl is pretty enough! Ye should have let her alone and now we'll all hang and damn and blast ye for breakin' me nose!"

This speech inspired the other men to a passion and they threw their voices in with Hank's. All of them yelling at Eddie. Who always got carried away. Who had now gotten them hung, or as good as. The things they shouted left none in the clearing with any doubt. These were the men. Mark was frozen, glaring at Eddie, who stared back, despite the men shoving at him and bellowing their anger. Eddie knew death, when he saw it. He swallowed hard. His face was covered in dried blood. Someone had beaten him to pulp already. Dalton had roughed him up, Eddie had said. Mark pushed that thought aside, refusing to believe the Dragoons would avenge his daughter.

Cilla was in their hands again. She was in Bordon's hands again, when she'd tried to flee. If not for Eddie Rousin, Cilla might have escaped Bordon entirely. She might have been with Mark, at that very moment, safe again, finally. If not for Eddie Rousin. Who attacked her camp and terrorised her. She'd been in Eddie's hands, and instead of trying to help her, he'd tried to rape her. As Bordon had raped her. As Bordon had been raping her for months. With an incoherent scream, Mark was running, his tomahawk arm came up and the blade crashed down with all his might, splitting Eddie's skull. The horses went mad. Men bellowed and yelled. Not Eddie. He stared up at Mark utterly shocked, gaping, the blade sticking out of his skull. The life drained from Eddie's eyes, they glazed over, became dull, blank. Mark tore the blade free, Eddie dropped to the ground with a thud. The man was clearly dead, but still Mark leapt upon him, using the flat edge of the tomahawk like a bludgeon. The sounds were sickening, wet thud after wet thud crunching into bone, the strong taste of iron stung his nose and tongue. And still Mark screamed and struck, until he was all over with blood, and Eddie's head was a caved mess, leaking blood and brains and gore. Seconds only it took, before he was being ripped away, Watson and Gabriel both were stronger, larger, younger than Mark, even with his fury. He was helpless in their grip.

Someone threw up. Mark heard the heaving and the slopping sound as it struck the ground. He turned, saw it was Dalton. Seeing Dalton made him think of Bordon. The tomahawk dripping blood from its blade made him think of Bordon. It should have been Bordon's blood… If I can do this to the man who intended to rape my daughter, what do you think I'll do to the man who actually did? And to the men who helped him… Mark shifted his gaze, saw others had vomited also. Dragoons. His own men. Two of the brigands. The brigands… Men of Eddie's band. Men who had stood there and done nothing, while he robbed Cilla, knowing he intended to rape her. Even Hank - who was only willing to speak the truth at the last moment, in the hope of bargaining for amnesty. And for revenge. He was no better than the others.

"Hang them," he commanded, voice raw, quiet. "Hang the lot of them."

Gabriel and Thomas, faces a mask of death, began calling for rope. No opposition, Mark was gratified to see. He'd been struggling with Gabriel, an Officer in the Continental Army, a man in his own family, who was coming in to his own power and authority. Gabriel had argued with him over many of Mark's decisions. Not now. Now, he was in complete agreement.

"They… should be bought… to trial," Dalton said. He ran his sleeve over his mouth, drying the bile and vomit. Blood still poured from his cheek. "You don't… have the authority… You need to -"

Mark silenced him with a look. He didn't have the right? He, of all the people in the world, had every damned right. He was the father. He would mete out justice. It was useless to argue, to protest this. Surely even Dalton could see that. Besides, it was already half done. The ropes were twisted and tied to form nooses. Enough of Mark's men stayed watching Dalton's Dragoons, while the others prodded the brigands, pushing them toward a stand of trees. A few of them wept. Others went quietly. Hank was utterly silent. Dwight cursed under his breath, declaring that when he saw Eddie in hell, he'd make him pay for this. Farshaw was in there, helping to shove one of the brigands up onto an overturned stump while the noose was thrown over a branch above his head. It was Farshaw, who kicked the stump out from beneath the man's legs. There were no speeches, no grand words spoken, as each and every single brigand was sent to meet their maker. Within minutes, it was done, and all but Eddie hung from the trees, their bodies swaying, boots only a few inches from the ground. Dalton glared at Mark, sore at being deprived of his quarry, annoyed that he could not fulfil his mission.

"That was ill done, Sir," he dared to say. "There should have been given a trial."

"What has he been doing to her," Mark shot back, "that made her desperate to leave?" He stepped closer, face a mask of stone. "What terrors does he bring to her every single day, that drove her to flee him ?"

"I… I don't know what you mean," Dalton faltered, looking confused. This was not the reply he'd been expecting. Mark closed that last little bit of distance and now stood with Dalton eye to eye.

"He's unfaithful," Farshaw supplied when Dalton didn't answer. His green eyes were narrowed, his lip curled. He stood at Mark's side, tension making his body stiff. "With my wife. He brings shame to your daughter, every damned night."

Mark couldn't have cared less about that. About Bordon being unfaithful. As much as he felt for Farshaw's plight, the shame his wife's adultery bought him, Mark felt better knowing that Bordon had a mistress. He'd keep to Mrs. Farshaw's bed, instead of going to Cilla. Or so he damned well hoped.

"I have no idea what Major Bordon does in private," Dalton said primly. "I do not believe he would ever bring shame to himself by being unfaithful."

"Has he been hitting her?" Mark said, not caring about the other.

"No!" Dalton cried, shocked. "Major Bordon is an honourable man and an honourable husband!"

"Honourable husband my arse. He's been screwing my bitch of a wife all this time… He ain't honourable. No one could ever call him honourable," Farshaw cut in. Mark nodded, agreeing fully. His men began to form again, all of them making a circle around the Dragoons, now that the brigands no longer required their attention. The bodies swayed in the trees, the ropes creaking. To Mark, Farshaw said, "he's a brute. Always has been. He has been beating Miss Putman since the start. I heard rumours from the servants that he was always striking her for -"

"Shut it!" Dalton yelled, beside himself now. "You're a rotten liar, Farshaw! You have reason to be against Bordon, everyone knows that! You'll say anything to set others against him, men more powerful than you, who can get the revenge you can't get for yourself!"

"You're one of the bastards that beat me that night, ain't? I'm against you too, ye piece of shit you," Farshaw squared his shoulders, balled fists at his sides. "Beat me so bad, I almost died of it."

"Deservedly so, after what you did to Mrs. Farshaw. Would that you had died," Dalton curled his lip, unrelenting. This comment took Mark aback, the venom in Dalton's voice as he spoke against Farshaw beating his wife. Dalton cared for her. He was protective of her and wreaked vengeance when Farshaw harmed her. A sliver of foreboding traced his spine. What did that mean for Cilla, then? How was she treated by the Dragoons, if the Dragoons held Bordon's mistress in higher regard? What hell was she living, where the mistress not only lived in the house, but ruled it?

Bad enough to make her flee.

"Stinking sodomite," one of the other officers growled. Mark put a restraining hand on Calvin Farshaw's arm, preventing him for going for that officer's throat.

"Major Bordon never beat his wife. Ever," Dalton said directly to Mark, choosing to ignore Farshaw completely.

"How would you know? You said yourself that you have no idea what Bordon does in private," Mark said.

"We need to get the Dragoons to one of our camps where they can be held under guard. Captain Lochy is a bit further north - about four more miles away," Gabriel said, trying to take control again. Now that the brigands were taken care of. Their brief moment of unity was coming to an end. "We are taking them captive, we should move out."

"Why did my daughter flee?" Mark ignored Gabriel for now. He looked past Dalton at the other Officers and regulars, searching for answers there. "What atrocities is she suffering at Fresh Water, at Bordon's hands?"

"I am telling you now, Sir," Dalton ground out through clenched teeth. "She is suffering none. Major Bordon cares for his wife and -"

Mark dropped the tomahawk, freeing his fist to smash it into Dalton's face. Dalton's head snapped back, he fell into the man behind him. As Mark stood there raging, Calvin cried out - as if with sudden realisation - "oh, I know why she tried to flee! Isn't it obvious? What's the wager that Bordon found out Miss Putman has been spying on this lot and was reporting it all back to you? I'd bet my teeth that he did."

Time slowed. Mark turned to Farshaw, shook his head slowly, astonished. What the hell the youth was thinking, revealing that? Asking such a damning question in front of these Dragoons? Dalton's eyes bulged over the hands clutching his nose. He shoved himself off his comrades to stand, unsteadily now. Blood poured from his nose as well as the cut on his cheek. Even though he was in agony, Dalton was still astonished at Farshaw's revelation.

"She what?" The words were muffled - Mark had broken Dalton's nose. Tears streamed from his eyes - from the pain of it. "She has been spying again?" He squeaked.

"Don't deny it. Don't pretend you don't know. She's been spying and Bordon found out. She got scared, ain't?" Calvin asked, almost gleeful, even as he dug a deeper hole for Cilla. "And so she ran. She was worried he'd hurt her. Hang her, maybe, like he threatened last time when she was caught back in the city. For committing treason. That's why she ran. Isn't it? You know it's why."

Mark stared at Calvin, watching the lad, trying to comprehend this awful betrayal. Trying to understand what Farshaw was doing. Telling Bordon's Dragoons that she'd been spying on them… Then it hit him like a hammer between the eyes and suddenly, he understood Farshaw's scheme. Farshaw wanted Dalton dead. He wanted them all dead. For beating him. For helping to keep Calvin's wife safely tucked away at Fresh Water. Farshaw had known that with Cilla's spying revealed, Mark would feel a desperate need to silence Dalton. A nasty little plot it was, too. Even if Dalton and the others were sent to a prison camp, there would always be the potential that they could get word back to Bordon. A sympathetic visitor to the camp, who might speak to any of the Dragoons and then carry the tale back to Bordon. Farshaw strongly suspected what course of action Mark would take to prevent Bordon from receiving such information. So Farshaw gave it to the Dragoons freely.

It was not such a difficult decision for Mark to reach. He wanted Bordon dead, as much as Farshaw did. He wanted all Dragoons dead. Tavington. Brownlow. The lot of them. Who had been in the dungeons that day? There'd been others, in the dank corridors outside the cells. And Dalton was never far from Bordon… He knew. Dalton had known. That Cilla was being ravished. And he'd done nothing to help her. Dalton was one of them. They were all one, slimy, foul, disgusting beast. Tavington was the beast's head. Bordon, its heart. These Dragoons were the beasts legs. It was time to cut the legs out from under it. None of them deserved to live.

"Kill them," he commanded, announcing their fate. "Execution by rifle."

"Gods! You certainly don't have the authority for that!" Dalton bellowed, infuriated. "The Rules of War -"

"There are no Rules of War here," Mark said, taking a step back to make room for Benjamin's men. They all looked at him, watching, shocked, waiting for him to recant. The Dragoons watched them all warily. Dalton turned to Gabriel. "Martin -" he began in a voice made nasal from his broken nose.

"Yes, yes, I know, I know," Gabriel finished. He shook his head, as if exasperated. Mark lifted his chin, insulted by his nephew's tone. As if Mark was a recalcitrant child, having a tantrum, giving commands he had no right to expect to be obeyed. "Lower your arms," Gabriel called to the men. Who obeyed, uncertain who they should be taking commands from. Gabriel turned to a livid Mark. "The Dragoons will be taken into custody. They will be escorted to a prison camp. No harm will come to any of them on the way," he said in a voice ringing with command. Mark squared his shoulders, ready to do battle with his nephew.

"Colonel Martin left me in command, Gabriel," Mark said, deliberately omitting Gabriel's own rank and position in the Continental establishment. After all, even with his new rank of Captain, Mark was still only a militiaman.

"This command goes above and beyond any authority Colonel Martin gave to you. Colonel Martin charged you with the procuring of information only, Sir," Gabriel corrected, taking a gentleman's stance and wrapping his own authority around himself like a cloak. He spoke formally, as if to a fellow Officer, not a nephew speaking to his uncle, who is a nephew's natural superior. "You have been chased away from that mission and now you must needs await further instruction from your superiors. I assure you, Captain, the executing of British Officers and soldiers were not, and will never be, included in any of your instructions."

Dalton drew a huge breath and released it slowly. He was relieved. Mark saw it. The damned Britisher was wagering all he had on Gabriel, that Gabriel was in command and Dalton's life was safe.

"Tavington's gotten into your head well and good, hasn't he, son?" Mark spat, utterly furious. Gabriel's eyes gave a flick of surprise. "A whole week spent in his company, listening to his lies. He drew you in, didn't he? It doesn't matter that he tortured me. You treat him like family now. Family," he hissed. "The Butcher!"

A restlessness took over the men, they began shifting from foot to foot, exchanging glances with one another, distrust stirring among them. Distrust of the Martin's. Mark despised having to do this to Gabriel, but he could see no other way to gain control of the men. Benjamin was guilty of this also - this accepting of Tavington as a son in law. Mark was trying to understand, trying to forgive, but it was damned hard. Especially when he was faced now, with Gabriel, who would support Tavington's men. Didn't it matter to any of them, what he went through? Wasn't he their family also? Didn't they care?

"That is neither here nor there. His he is married to my sister. That is a family affair and none of anyone else's," Gabriel said, holding Mark's gaze.

No. They didn't care. Mark felt it like a punch to the chest. It left him reeling.

"Yeh. It's none of anyone's business, what was said or anything else," Thomas folded his arms across his chest, blue eyes blazing. "See here, uncle, we don't know what your issue is with Major Bordon. Yes, he married your daughter. We were as peeved about it as you. As peeved about Tavington marrying Beth -"

"The two are light and day different, boy. You've no idea what you are talking about," Mark ground out, still stung and reeling.

"I don't see how there could be any difference," Thomas said belligerently. "We weren't happy about it none, but Beth is happy and Tavington isn't such a bad fellow. A right bastard Britisher, yes. A damned Lobsterback. But he makes Beth happy," Thomas paused. "Sort of," he said under his breath. Then continued, "and Bordon likely makes Cilla happy enough."

"Oh you think so, do you?" Mark flared, infuriated. "Yes, it must be so, that's why she tried to flee from him, of course!" He slapped his forehead. "How dense am I? Of course my daughter is happy with him. Why else would she try to bloody leave?" He was yelling by the end. All eyes were on him, the eyes of every militiaman present. With a struggle, he lowered his voice. "I find it quite disturbing, how quickly the men of my own family are ready to dismiss what Tavington and Bordon did to me. Do I need to resort to showing you the scars?" He asked, pulling the bottom of his shirt from his breeches. He had to drop his weapons to do it, but in moments, his chest was bared for all to see, the crumpled bottom of his shirt and jacket bunched up in his fists. The scars were healed, but were still new - livid pink slashes and fleshy burn marks. Benjamin's men crowded closer to see, many of them whistling with surprise and cursing under their breath. Hearing that he'd been tortured was one thing, but seeing… Gabriel stared, taken aback by the evidence displayed across Mark's body.

"That is nothing to do with Ensign Dalton or these others," Gabriel said in a strangled voice even as he averted his gaze, unable to look any longer. "You do not have the authority to execute these men, regardless of what Tavington and Bordon did to you. The brigands deserved to be hung for their crimes. Justice has been meted out, as was our right," Gabriel stared past Mark and announced to the men, "my uncle is in a passion. He should not be using the militia for his own personal affairs. And he should not subvert our laws, by hanging Regulars, in any event. No matter his personal end game."

"Your father did precisely that, Gabriel," Mark's voice shook with rage as he shoved his shirt back down and tucked it in. What hypocrites! "He used the militia to capture Tavington, so that you all might have a go at whipping him!"

"Capture Tavington, yes. Not murder him," Gabriel's voice lashed like a whip. Again, he looked past Mark to address the men directly. That was where the true power lay, Mark knew. Get the men on side, and they'd do whatever you wished. Or abandon any scheme you ask them to abandon. For a wild moment, Mark felt helpless, as though he were losing them, and with them lost, so would be his ability to mete his own justice on Bordon. Gabriel began, "my uncle's authority derives from that which Colonel Martin has granted to him. My uncle's task was to gain information of the enemy. That was all. Neither Colonel Martin nor General Burwell have endowed Captain Putman with the power to hang British Regulars under any circumstances. "If you persist with this travesty, you will be committing a most grievous crime. You will be charged with murder and in turn, you might very well be faced with the noose yourselves."

Silence reigned. Only birds chirping in the trees and the creaking of a swinging rope - a haunting sound, reminding the men of what might happen to them, if they decided wrongly. Several of them glanced with wary eyes at the dangling brigands. They jerked their eyes away with a shudder.

"The militia have been acting without Continental instruction or support for months," one of Benjamin's men piped up from the back of the crowd. Peter Scott, cousin to Dan Scott. They bred like rabbits, that family. The men were fiercely loyal to the Martin's, but here was Peter, pushing forward through the cautious militiamen to confront Gabriel. "You joined us, Martin. Not the other way around. We don't take our orders from Continentals."

"You take your orders from my father," Gabriel ground out, growing tense as he finally sensed the shifting mood among the men. "As do I," he said, meeting their gazes, one by one. "And he has never given instructions such as these. If you follow Captain Putman's order, you will be committing mutiny and will be punished accordingly. We will take these to the nearest camp. That is what we are going to do. Do I make myself clear?" Gabriel called out, standing tall, feet spread apart, arms folded across his chest. A fighting stance. He was making a last ditch effort to seize control of the men. Perhaps his father could have accomplished it, but Gabriel was young yet. He still had much to learn about the hearts of men. Many of these had grown bitter toward the Continentals and their Officers. Not Gabriel and Thomas who had been riding with them. But the other Officers, Gabriel's superiors. Officers the militia rarely saw or heard from, until orders were given for yet another long march without food or supplies, or another command that they give up their horses for the Continental Dragoons, or another order that would send them into the heart of battle with no thanks whatsoever. No commiseration, for all they were suffering at the hands of first Tarleton's Dragoons, and then Tavington's.

The loss of a loved one. A wife, a child. The homes burned to the ground. Cattle and livelihoods destroyed. Gabriel could not encompass it. How could he know all that these others have endured? Fresh Water was still standing. And not a single member of the Martin family had lost a loved one. Mark knew, however. Oh, he knew first hand, the suffering. The heartache. The soul deep grief. The bone wrenching fury. The need avenge his daughter. The burning desire to set things to right. He was not the only one feeling it. They'd all felt the sting of Tavington's bite. Of Bordon's. Benjamin's men were moving. It was a slow thing at first, barely perceived at the corner of Mark's eye. Those who would support him, came to stand behind him. Some stood behind Gabriel, a few remained where they stood, exchanging glances. All of this, while still keeping a careful eye on the Dragoons.

"Have you sent word to Billings that his son and wife are dead yet?" Mark asked, voice rasping as he reminded Gabriel of a recent horror, one they'd only just learned of. Billings - away up north with Benjamin, was completely unaware that his wife and child were dead. His entire family destroyed in one fell swoop of a Dragoon raid. He studied Gabriel's face, saw his lips turn white around the edges. "Does he know?" Mark whispered, the sound like a snake slithering on dry leaves.

"I… I sent word…" Gabriel murmured. Mark nodded once. He turned his back on his nephew and addressed the men.

"Will we let this atrocity go unanswered? When we have it within our grasp, to answer this latest transgression?" Mark's voice rang through the clearing. He saw, from the corner of his eyes, Dalton looking decidedly worried. The Ensign had seen the Company dividing and knew it would not bode well for him. Mark turned to Dalton now. "Were you involved? Were you there?"

"I do not know what you are speaking of," Dalton lifted his chin, wrapping himself in haughtier. Precisely the wrong thing to do.

"I'll wager you were," Mark said. Benjamin's men, some of them Mark's men now, were gripping their weapons tightly, their faces dark and hagged as they remembered the barbaric sight. "Did your Colonel give you orders to do it?"

"Sir, I do not know what you speak of. I have no idea whatsoever," Dalton replied. He looked to Gabriel again for support. Mark wanted to slam his fist in Dalton's jaw for that.

He was in charge here, not his bloody nephew. Dalton had known. He had to have known. He'd stood by and done nothing as Cilla was dragged into the dungeon, terrified and helpless, and was defiled by this man's Superior. He'd likely helped. Hell, he'd probably headed the detachment sent to escort Cilla from the safety of Mark's own home, to the place where her torture began. Dalton and that other one - Brownlow. Always together, always doing Bordon and Tavington's bidding! Mark would see them all destroyed.

Tavington. His henchmen. Bordon! How dare Dalton deny involvement? How dare he claim ignorance? When Billings wife and child lay in the dirt, their blood soaking into the mud? Justice. He would mete justice, no matter what the cost. No matter what Burwell, or even Benjamin said of it. Benjamin had made his choice. He'd chosen to forgive Tavington. That was something that Mark would never do. This had to be done. These men - Bordon's Dragoons - had ruled the Santee for long enough. With a thunk, Mark's tomahawk dropped to the ground and with one smooth motion, he lifted his rifle. Dalton had enough time to roll his eyes toward Gabriel - before the ball smashed into the flat space between. The shot coughed from the carbine, Dalton's mouth hung open slack jawed, and he tumbled backward into his comrades. Mark watched and listened in a dispassionate sort of way, as though he were watching a play on the stage, one where he was a main player. Screaming. There was lots of that. Farshaw took site and another ball coughed outward, causing another spray of blood and a body to hit the ground. Of the confused militia men, many fell back without firing a shot, shocked to insensibility. Many others took aim and settled for the bellowing Dragoons, even as Gabriel shouted and bellowed, trying to call them to order. Dragoon Officers and Regulars screaming over their fallen. Had any of them screamed for Cilla? Had any of them shown any care, when she was ravaged? No. They defended Bordon's whore with teeth and nail but Cilla gets dragged to the dungeon and her life changed forever. Even as Peter Scott killed another, Mark stared down at Ensign Dalton. He had a strange look on his face, did Dalton. He looked astounded. As though shocked to discover that his ilk were not omnipotent after all. Gabriel shouted until most of the men in his company formed up with him, but it was too late. Too late to stop the slaughter. The last Dragoon hurtled backward into the mud, even after pleading for mercy. Had they shown Cilla mercy in the dungeon that day, then perhaps Mark might have now.

But they hadn't, had they? Someone clapped him on the back. He turned, feeling drunk and met Farshaw's green, gleeful eyes.

"I did three of the bastards," he boasted. He pushed back raven hair as if fell into his eyes. Such a boyish gesture, for a killer. Had he really stabbed Major Fallows' in the throat? Mark looked at him now, studied him hard. Yes. Yes, he could well believe it. Poor lad. He'd been raped too. He'd felt no doubt a moment ago, felt no compunction at killing Dalton. It was justice. Now, he felt even more certain that what they'd just done was absolutely right. God's work, it was. God had guided his hand, hadn't He? Or at the very least, He hadn't stayed it. If God hadn't wanted this, He would have worked through Gabriel, He would not have had Gabriel seized and held back.

"…Massacre!" Gabriel was yelling. "You've bloody gone mad!"

Mark looked over at his nephew and felt sadness well from the tips of his toes throughout his entire body. Gabriel would never reconcile himself to this, nor would Thomas, who was on his knees, head clutched in his hands. It was a severing. That was what Mark had done. He'd severed himself from his own family. Gabriel was shouting something else now, about his madness and how Burwell would hear about this and Mark would be dragged over piping hot coals before being hung. His own nephew, threatening him with such things, while Tavington is lauded as being not such a bad fellow. He sighed and turned away.

"Get your horses," he said, to those willing to follow him, the ones who'd fired on the Dragoons, joining him in the slaughter. There weren't that many of them. The ten he'd spent the last two weeks with, and a few more from Gabriel's lot. But they had settled for a score of Dragoons even while their own comrades tried to stop them. Those hardened men who had suffered through such hardships and sorrow, who were now done with being gentlemen. The British had shown the extent of their resolve. Why should they get any mercy from Mark? He mounted, as did his fifteen. Not Gabriel, of course. And not Thomas. Many remained behind, those standing back, watching Mark and the now detached militia, mount. Farshaw was at his side, grinning from ear to ear. Peter Scott was on his other. His new lieutenants, perhaps?

Not Watson, though. Nicholas was staring at Mark like he'd never seen him before. Like he'd grown a second head.

"Nick?" Mark called, asking. "Do you come or do you stay?"

"This was madness, Mark," Nicholas seized his arm. "I know you're angry about what Tavington did to you, but this… This was… Madness. I fear you are going -"

"Mad? I'll protect my daughter using whatever means necessary, Nick," he said gravely. "Dalton and those others… If they were ever returned to their unit, they would report back that my daughter has been spying. They don't hesitate to hang women, the British don't. I was protecting her."

"What rot. This was Farshaw's doing. I told you he could not be trusted," Nicholas spat, glaring at Farshaw, whose grin slid from his face. "Everything that is being said about him is true - he is a vile little snake and you've let him slide right on in. Now look what he's done - he wanted those men dead or he never would have mentioned your daughter and the spying in front of them. And you wanted them dead, or you would have taken a different course. You weren't protecting her. You were avenging yourself and you and I both know it."

"Believe as you wish," Mark twisted his arm out from Nicholas' grip. It killed him, it was like severing himself from his own child. A son. Nicholas had become that, very much so, in the last few months. Damn - the man had saved his life, back in Charlestown, when Sumter tried to kill him. Gods. The Patriots had been set against him, even then. And they would be now, even more so. "

"Murderers!" Gabriel bellowed. "Seize them!" He came striding forward, his face a mask of death. His men fell in behind him, twenty-five of them. Mark watched, holding his breath, as his fifteen formed up behind him. Gabriel kept marching forward but then his stride began to falter, his certainty faded from his face. Mark held his eyes for a moment, before turning on his heel and striding away. He was not surprised when he did not hear Gabriel's command to capture him, he'd seen the conflict on his nephew's face. His men would have done it, but Gabriel had faltered. Therefore, Mark and his men began to fade into the trees, returning to retrieve their horses. "Let's pick up the pace, in case he changes his mind," he said and he and his men began to run.

They spread out among the trees, finding and claiming their horses, then formed up into one unit, Farshaw at Mark's side.

"Bordon next, isn't it?" Farshaw asked, trotting alongside. "We're goin' after him now, ain't it?"

"There's a thing I need to do first but then… Yes, we'll be going after Bordon," Mark replied. He scanned the trees and caught momentary sight of Watson. But then he was gone; Watson was. They were all gone. Mark looked about and found he was left with the hardest, most aggrieved of the militia. Hardened men who would stop at nothing, who would not balk at any command given. Hell, he hadn't even commanded it, really. Not a second time, when he fired that first shot. They'd all shot into the prisoners of their own accord, even after Gabriel's grand speech about the punishment for mutiny. Good men, these. Farshaw looked ready to faint with excitement. He reeled, blew a slow breath of release. No, he didn't look like he was on the verge of a faint. He looked like a man who'd just finished with a woman, after just spilling his seed. That glorious satisfaction. Mark couldn't help it, he laughed a grim laugh. "It's almost time, Farshaw. You've kept them safe, haven't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Calvin grinned and patted his saddlebag, where O'Hara's seal and cipher lay. "Safely tucked up right here."

"Let us hope the cipher hasn't changed. Are you certain you can still replicate O'Hara's hand?"

"He'd think he wrote the missive himself, Sir, if it was to fall into his hands," Calvin boasted.

"Then let's go get Bordon, lad," Mark clapped him on the back. Calvin gave a great whoop, his laughter rebounding from the trees overhead. "Farshaw," Mark called a caution. "He's mine, as we agreed. I will kill him, and I will rescue my daughter."

"I get to watch though, ain't?" Calvin said jovially, as if getting to watch while Bordon was murdered took the sting out of not being able to do the deed himself.

"Oh, yes. You will get to watch alright," Mark replied grimly, imagining the slow way he was going to make Bordon die. "Don't worry, lass," he said under his breath. "Papa's coming for you. You won't be in that vile bastard's hands for much longer…"

---

"Gods, my head," Captain Gordon clutched his skull and winced. Samuel spared him a worried glance. They'd been getting worse these last months, those headaches. Samuel's father hadn't pulled the blow, before striking the flat of his tomahawk into the Officer's head. Samuel stared through the bushes downhill at the rough looking man on the ground, his skull smashed to mush. His uncle had just done the same to that poor fellow down there, as his father had done to Gordon and his men. Samuel had just watched him do it. One moment, his uncle had been talking to the man and then suddenly, the tomahawk…

Samuel closed his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He'd bought up his breakfast and he still felt nauseous.

"God, when will it stop?" Gordon whispered, as if calling to the Gods above. Perhaps it was seeing this fellow murdered in much the same manner that Samuel's father had tried to kill Gordon. The same manner his father had killed several of Gordon's men.

Was it a family favourite then? The tomahawk?

"You right there, Martin?" A fellow to his right asked. Painter was his name. One of the survivors of the Pembroke Road Slaughter, as they'd come to call it. He had a deep gash down one cheek - received during the Slaughter. When Nathan, Samuel, their father and the militia attacked the British caravan carrying Samuel's siblings to prison camp.

The day Samuel's father had become the devil.

And now Mark had become a demon also. Samuel could see his uncle clearly through a gap in the trees. There were lots of Patriot militiamen milling down there but Samuel could only catch the occasional glimpse of most of them, because of the dense woods. He could see the captured Dragoons, however. And he could see his uncle Mark, blood dripping from the blade as he stood over the fallen man.

"Yeh. I'm a'right," Samuel lied. False bravado. He moved his boot out of the vomit. It'd gotten onto his breeches leg, too. Shame welled; none of the others had vomited. Only Samuel. The boy amongst the men. The boy who'd killed men. Guilt welled. Was that all his family were? Killers? Mark was talking to someone. Gabriel came into view. Thomas was there too, Samuel had caught glimpses of him through the trees. They were on the far side of the great oak, now. Mark and Gabriel were speaking; it was impossible to know what they were saying, their words did not carry.

Ensign Dalton - Samuel recognised him - was wiping the back of his mouth too. Lords above, the relief was so strong he could taste it. Samuel hadn't been the only one to expel the contents of his stomach after all.

"Lord, it's passing," Gordon whispered, relieved. Samuel pulled his eyes away from what was happening down below.

"Are you well?" He asked softly, concerned.

He had a debt to pay Gordon. A blood price. Gordon was good to him. He didn't blame him at all for what Samuel's father did to him and to his men. He wasn't angry with Samuel either, he said that Samuel's father made Samuel shoot Gordon's men. Gordon forgave him. Samuel couldn't help but feel blame, though. His father hadn't forced him. His father hadn't held his finger on the trigger. That had been all Samuel. He had a debt to pay to these men, to the survivors of The Slaughter. There was blood on his hands, he'd never be able to wash it away.

Still, it wrung his heart, seeing his brothers again. It'd been such a long time. He wished he could run down there and throw himself into Gabriel's arms and clap Thomas on the back, though Thomas was sure to twit him endlessly the moment he saw him. Thomas always twitted him. Where was Nathan? He searched the Company again, what he could see of the men amidst the trees, being careful to not look at the body on the ground. He recognised only a few and Nathan was not one of them.

All those prisoners - Ensign Dalton and The Green Dragoons - huddled together. Devoid of their weapons, surrounded by rifle wielding Patriot militiamen. What was happening down there? He could see flashes of his family and the other militiamen through the trees.

"Shouldn't we go and help them? The Dragoons?" Samuel asked Gordon.

"And risk being captured too? We are too few," Gordon replied. Samuel gave him a startled look. Gordon had a score of men and surprise on his side. But the decision was Gordon's, not Samuel's, so the boy said nothing.

Gordon shifted beside him. They were not alone. A small unit - twenty of them. A small mobile force, Gordon called them. Gordon told Samuel that he often received commands from Colonel Tavington, who was grateful to have this small force in the field, one the rebels knew nothing of. He sent Gordon's men on secret missions. Gordon often said that the survivors of the Slaughter were Tavington's left hand, that they were doing what needed to be done. Samuel still wasn't sure what that thing was, but he trusted Beth's husband to know where Gordon's men were needed most.

Colonel Tavington often asked Gordon to pass along messages to Samuel; praise, mostly - he thought Samuel was doing so well, that he was needed with the troop, and how proud Beth was of him. He couldn't understand why, but those messages really buoyed him. If Beth said to him in person that she was proud of him, he'd have twitted her, for certain. But hearing those messages when he was so far from home and so far from his own family… It gave Samuel heart. Colonel Tavington was proud of him. Beth was proud of him. At least one member of his family hadn't become a stark raving lunatic. And she approved of his place in this small British detachment.

He'd found family here amongst this small detachment, when his own had become so monstrous. His father… Jesus, that was complicated. He loved his father still, but he never wanted to see him again. How could that be? And his brothers… God, it was good to see them - even just these small glimpses. Gabriel and Thomas, only twenty or so rods away. They were right there… And his uncle was too. His uncle was alive. Gods - it'd been such a shock, seeing him alive when everyone had thought he was dead. Samuel had wanted to run down there, to be with the men of his family.

Until Samuel saw his uncle swing back his tomahawk and sent it flying into that man's skull. The blood had sprayed in an arc high overhead. The man crumpled to the ground, head split in two, and still Mark struck, his arm lifting and falling until there couldn't have been any skull left. Samuel closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. His brothers hadn't stopped their uncle from killing that man. His mouth was suddenly dry. He wasn't so sure he wanted to rush down there into their arms anymore.

That longing still persisted, a part of him wanting to be with his blood kin again. But he was wary of them now. They had watched from the wagon as their father did murder to free them and they hadn't batted an eyelid. Were the Martin's monsters? Was he a monster too? Would he become one, if he returned to them? He'd already killed men, at his father's behest. How many more would he kill? His father had turned him into something monstrous that day. The day Gordon took that awful wound and half of his force was killed…

"Which are your brothers?" Gordon asked, his voice finally returning to normal. He stared through the trees, trying to catch sight of them. Samuel had to wait a long time before answering.

"That's Gabriel, with the blonde hair," he said as Gabriel moved into view for a moment. "And that's Thomas with the black."

"And your uncle is the one who killed that man?" Gordon asked, fixing Samuel with as sharp gaze. Shame flooded through him, making his face burn red. Reluctantly, he nodded. There was a lot of movement down there, Samuel and his comrades couldn't hear, but they could deduce what was happening well enough. They had a clear line of sight to Dalton and the Green Dragoons, all being held at gunpoint. And a decent view of the plain clothed men Mark and Gabriel's band had captured.

"Look at them, executing prisoners. Hanging them right there in the trees," Gordon twisted his lips. The woods were thick and their view limited, but they could see that much of what was taking place. The prisoners were being strung up from tree branches. Samuel looked away from the sight. The other men watched avidly. Gordon continued, "executing prisoners… Just as they executed my detachment. It's men of your family doing this - men of your blood," he said, again meeting Samuel's eyes. Samuel blanched. "Killing prisoners just as they killed my men."

"They didn't though, did they?" Samuel asked carefully. "My brothers… They weren't involved in what was done to your men that day. They were your prisoners, they couldn't hurt your men. Besides, what if that lot did something terribly wrong?" Samuel asked hopefully.

"Then why is Ensign Dalton trying to stop them from being hung?" They could see that much. The Dragoons had begun to protest, as soon as the ragged looking fellows were dragged to the trees. Movement was constant and fast between the trees down below, Samuel saw one of what he knew were many nooses cast over a tree branch. "They haven't done anything wrong, Sammie, unless you call being a Kingsman a crime. Those are our militiamen, I don't doubt," Gordon said raggedly. "Loyalist militia. That's why they were travelling with the Dragoons and it's why they're being killed and it's why Dalton is protesting."

"So let us go down there and help them," Samuel said but Gordon shook his head, as if he did not hear.

"Your family is taking the law into their own hands. Again."

"Gabriel is a fair man. He's very gentle, too," Samuel said with a frown. When he saw Gabriel shove a noose over one fellows head while Thomas held the man in place, he snapped his mouth shut.

"Looks real gentle to me," Gordon snorted. "Real fair. If they did something wrong, Sammie, then where was their trial?"

"I don't know," Samuel sighed, troubled. Gabriel should not be doing doing this - it wasn't right. It wasn't just. Gabriel and his uncle didn't have the right to condemn militiamen to their deaths - even those they considered enemies… But there they were, doing exactly that. Thomas as well.

"What will they do with the Dragoons, do you think?" Gordon asked then. That was a concern also. Mark and Gabriel appeared to be facing one another and conversing. But then Gabriel moved back a fraction and was again lost to view. Thomas - Samuel couldn't see Thomas, he was back on the other side of that big oak. If only the trees would move, so Samuel could get a better view! Foolish thing to wish for, he chided himself.

A thing a boy would wish for.

"Shouldn't we try to rescue them, Captain?" Private Painter asked and Samuel brightened, relieved that he wasn't the only one asking.

"We number far less than they, we'd be decimated," Gordon shook his head.

It was true that they numbered less, but 'far'?

It would be twenty against thirty. Plus, the Dragoons would be able to help when the rescue began, even without their weapons - they could fight. Samuel was about to say so, but then Gordon continued.

"No. The Colonel needs us in the field, we can not risk being captured and killed by the men below. We're of much more use to the Colonel if we stay back and watch. We'll follow this lot, see where the Dragoons are being taken. Then I'll send a report to the Colonel, he can come with greater numbers to rescue the Dragoons.."

The men fell quiet, settling in to watch. Already on edge, they crouched tensely in the bushes, peering downhill through the trees, trying to catch enough glimpses of what was happening below. Gabriel was no where to be seen now, but Mark marched into view and was speaking to Dalton. Discussing the terms of their capture, perhaps? Mark looked angry enough to chew nails. As Samuel watched, Mark jerked up his rifle.

Suddenly a shot rang out, a barking cough that reached the ears of those bearing witness uphill. Samuel jumped, as did the others. Dalton flung backwards to the ground and did not rise. Samuel clamped his hand over his mouth. Another militiaman down there shot a Dragoon and reloaded with astonishing speed, then shot another and then another. More militiamen fired into the prisoners, killing them, even though they were clearly begging for quarter. They didn't even have their weapons. Gods. Samuel heard a shout, he couldn't make out the words. Samuel was making strangling noises into his hands.

"Damn and blast them," Gordon cursed. "Damn and blast them! Murderers!" The others were spitting similar curses, furious over this unlawful, mass execution. Within moments, it was done. The rifles were silenced, they were lowered.

Samuel's vision was blurred with tears but he could make out the form of his uncle - mounted now - slapping one of his militiamen on the back. The one who'd loaded his rifle with astonishing speed, the one who'd shot the most Dragoons. Job well done, the gesture said. Samuel choked back a sob, his stomach twisted. How could they do such a horrendous thing? His brothers. His uncle. Executing prisoners. Gods, his family truly had gone mad. Samuel buried his face in his hands, unable to hold back the grief. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder. Gordon. Squeezing lightly, offering commiseration. Samuel howled all the harder.

"Samuel," Gordon said softly, as if crooning to a child. "We need to leave. There's nothing we can do about this now. We must leave now. Unless you want to return to your brothers and your uncle?" He asked. Samuel's shoulders shook beneath Gordon's strong hand. He forced himself to stop crying - to try to stop at least. His sobs did slow a bit. He lowered his hands. The Patriot militia were disbursing, he could still see the blurred vision of their horses moving through the trees. "They have not gone far," Gordon said. Samuel could feel the Officer's eyes on him, an intense stare. "You could catch up to your brothers, if you ride now."

"Do you want me to go?" Samuel asked, feeling quite hurt.

"Lad, no, I don't. I'm merely giving you the option. Do you want to return to them?"

Samuel shook his head. "Gods, no," he whispered, drying his eyes with the back of a dirty sleeve. His stomach twisted with revulsion. Grief for the dead, revulsion for the killers. His family, his blood. "Gods, no. They're demons. I will not go back to them. Not now. Not ever."

"Very well," Gordon sounded pleased. "Come along then, son. We need to leave." He helped Samuel to his feet, turned him toward the horses, and helped him walk the short distance to his saddle. He even held the stirrup in place, so the grief struck youth could mount. "I'm pleased that you're staying with us," Gordon said up to Samuel when he was mounted. Samuel gazed down at the Captain, fingers a white knuckle grip on the reins. "I know you wanted to speak to your brothers. And I know this is hard for you. But son, you don't belong with them anymore. You're not capable of committing such atrocities. You might be of their blood, but you're not one of them. You're one of us now and you have been for a long time. You belong with us."

"I don't want to speak with them. Not now. Not after this. God. My father…" Samuel closed his eyes a moment, allowed the wave of pain to wash through him, riding it until it began to recede. "My father… He chastised Colonel Tarleton, for doing exactly this. For killing without quarter. This was worse. Tarleton didn't kill prisoners. They killed prisoners," he whispered, reeling. "My brothers… They have taken a very bad path, haven't they?"

"A very bad path - the wrong path," Gordon agreed. He patted Samuel's leg.

"It's not the way I would wage war," Samuel said, haunted. "It's not the way."

"It most certainly is not. Come let's get some distance between us and them. And then we'll work the forms tonight, some practice with the sword is just what you need right now."

The rest of the troop was mounted by now. Samuel fell in with them, still reeling over all he'd seen. The sword forms… Gordon was correct, it was precisely what he needed. To work up a sweat, to lift and swing the sword until his arms and body ached, until he was so exhausted, he'd sleep no matter what atrocities he'd seen that day. He took one last look below; he stared hard at the bodies - so many bodies, left there, unburied. They were gone from view now, the militia. His uncle. His brothers. Lord, he'd been so happy to see that Mark was alive, until… He'd wanted to rush down there and join them all, until…

Not now, however.

"Son?" Gordon called from the front of the line. Samuel pulled his eyes away from the massacre below, he kicked his heels into the horses flanks and galloped the short distance to Gordon's side, taking his place where he belonged.