Chapter 127 - Delivering Bad News:

Early December, 1780.

"How do you know he's not going to keep us?" Thomas fretted. "You know, take us prisoner?"

Gabriel felt the same stirring in his gut. Suspicion. Distrust. This was Tavington they were about to have an audience with, after all. At length, he shook his head. "He won't. We've come under parlay. He'll keep his word."

"At this stage, I think I'd like being held prisoner. As long as I get to stay here," Nathan said, eyeing the house as it rose up in the distance. Their house. Their home. Fresh Water. Gabriel's stomach twisted. If he was a lass, he'd have started weeping. The longing for home was just so damned strong. But they did not come to stay. His hands shook on the reins, that awful feeling in his stomach shifted to lead, weighing him down. It was all going to hell. At this point, he probably wouldn't give a single protest if Tavington did turn on him and clamp him in chains. As long as he got to stay at Fresh Water, like Nathan said.

Bloody Nathan and his bloody news. Gabriel's throat clamped. It was difficult to breathe all of a sudden. It kept taking him that way at the odd moment, ever since Nathan told him about their father; caught and made prisoner by Banastre Tarleton. I can't do this alone, Gabriel thought, his throat tightening more. I just can't. But he had to. He had no choice in the matter. It was either take charge and forge ahead, or lie in a ditch and die. Or let Tavington make him a prisoner, too.

Immediately after Mark massacred those men, Gabriel had set out with what remained of the militia - those men who sided with him - to find his father and tell him what had happened. Only to encounter Nathan instead. Nathan, and his awful news. His father, held captive at the British head quarters. It'd taken Nicholas Watson to point out what should have been obvious to Gabriel from the moment Nathan's news left his lips. "If your father is imprisoned, how do you think he'll be treated when news of the Dragoon massacre reaches Cornwallis?" He had asked. Gabriel had felt the blood drain from his face. His father and all the militia Banastre Tarleton had captured. How would they fare now, in the wake of Mark's murder of those Green Dragoons? He already imagined the worst for the militia, being bundled onto prison ships and into prison camps. But his father, it was said, was being kept in a proper house, with servants to attend him. How long would that last, now? If only he'd been able to guess Mark's intentions, if only he'd been able to stop him! Gabriel's father would likely be abused terribly now - whipped, starved, kept like a dog… Gabriel had never known such futility. There'd been nothing he could do, nothing that would help his father.

Until he remembered Tavington…

Gabriel had known a moment of indecision, then. With his father captured, shouldn't he go to Burwell and inform him of Mark's actions? But time was not on Gabriel's side, and Fresh Water was so much closer than Grindal Shoals. It was Tavington he chose to go to first. To plead with the Colonel, to tell him that Mark had acted alone, that his actions were not sanctioned. To beg that Tavington speak to his Commanders on Benjamin's behalf, so that their wrath would not be taken out on their prisoner. Of course, Burwell could have done this just as easily, Gabriel realised as he trotted down the road behind his Redcoat escort toward the house. General Burwell could have made contact with General Cornwallis. They could have corresponded. Discussed the situation as the higher ranking gentlemen they were meant to be. Gabriel had made a rash decision in choosing Tavington, he had not thought of the consequences. For instance, what will General Burwell - Gabriel's superior - say when he realised that Gabriel went first to Tavington, their enemy, rather than reporting the dire news immediately to Burwell, as was his duty? There were no two ways around it. As soon as he learned his father was captured, he should have gone to Burwell instead to inform him of Mark actions.

Too late now.

"If we're going to tell him about Uncle Mark, do we tell him about the cipher and seal? Uncle Mark never did give them over to Burwell, and I don't think he's likely to now. He wants to use them to kill William and Bordon. Should we warn them?" Thomas' question broke in to Gabriel's thoughts. He kept his voice low, only loud enough to be heard over the horses. Certainly not loud enough to be heard by their British escort. Another reason he should have gone to Burwell instead of Tavington. Should he warn Tavington of Mark's plan? Hell, the Colonel didn't even know Mark was alive. Mark could strike at any time and Tavington would not even see it come. Was it treason, to tell the British Officer of the plot against him?

Mark had taken himself out of Burwell's command. He was acting on his own now. For the Cause, yes. But as a renegade, doing deeds that would have a devastating effect for the Cause. If he was planning on capturing Bordon and Tavington, then his plot would have been approved by Burwell. But his plan was to torture and murder them both. Therefore, shouldn't he warn Tavington?

Then again, shouldn't Gabriel lay the matter before Burwell and let the General decide how to deal with it?

Then again again, Tavington was Gabriel's brother by marriage. Was it really so wrong, to warn his own brother, that someone was going to try to kill him? It wasn't treason, not now that Mark had taken himself out of the command train with his mutiny and was now working alone. Gods. Gabriel had been in the army for four years now and he'd never found decision making so hard before. He'd been doing it without his father all this time. So why did he feel like he was faltering now, and entirely out of his depth? He should have gone to Burwell first. Gods, he was going to be raked over the coals, for approaching the enemy before his own Commander, without revealing the cipher and seal.

"If Burwell can retrieve them," he mused, thinking his way through it. "Then he can use them as he sees fit. And Tavington and Bordon will only be in danger of being captured," he said, speaking carefully because of the British riding ahead of him. "If we tell Tavington now, Burwell won't be able to use them at all, therefore, we will have committed treason."

"But if he can't get them off from uncle Mark?" Thomas asked. "Their lives will still be in danger."

"If Burwell can't get them, I'll warn Tavington then," Gabriel replied. "There's time yet. Don't mention them now, Thomas. Let Burwell deal with it. Anything else will be deemed as giving information to the enemy and that's treason." Thomas nodded, seeming to understand how difficult this was for Gabriel - the two were swimming treacherous waters. The three of them, if he included Nathan. Which he did. They were nearly to the house now. They'd left the rest of the militia - and Nicholas Watson - in a safe location. Watson would hang if he had come, there was no doubt about it. He was a British turncoat; if he'd come with Gabriel, then his fate would have been sealed, no parlay would change that.

Gabriel, Thomas and Nathan had cautiously approached the outskirts of the British camp, requested an audience with Tavington, then had sat back to await the answer. Tavington had agreed to see them immediately, much to Gabriel's relief. That was something, at least. No delaying for days while waiting for the Colonel's pleasure. He'll tell Tavington about his murdered Dragoons, he'll beg the Colonel to do what he can to help his father. And then he'll be on the road again before midday. If they ride hard enough, and if the weather held, they'll be with Burwell in only a few days. One day longer than it would have taken, if he'd gone directly to Burwell in the first place. That would be forgivable, wouldn't it? Probably not. He probably shouldn't tell Burwell that he went to Tavington first.

"Do we mention Beth?" Nathan called out from behind them.

"Good God no!" Gabriel called back. "Do you want to make this even worse?" For some reason, Thomas threw his head back and laughed. He was an odd boy, at times. An odd sense of what he thought was funny.

Tavington was waiting at the top of the steps. He looked much better than last time Gabriel saw him, when he was shot and whipped and in as bad a state as a man could be and still be alive. Now, he stood tall, ramrod straight, one arm behind his back, his chin lifted. His eyes weren't as cold as ice though. That was something. He even wore a small smile, if it could be called such. Maybe calling it a smile was too generous. At least he wasn't scowling and looking down his nose like he usually did. Bordon walked out of the house to stand beside the Colonel. The Major was looking haggard, worn. Like he hadn't slept in days. Damn and blast them both. How was he going to leave this place without warning them about Mark's intentions? What would his father do?

His father would never condone murder. Capture, yes. But not murder. And these men were his family now, like it or lump it. Still, he had a battle to fight and the cipher and seal were weapons of magnitude that they could not afford to lose. His father would recommend they were recovered from Mark before he could put his plan in place - which in itself would save Tavington and Bordon's lives - and he would use them under Burwell's direction.

And that was what Gabriel would do. He might not be giving Tavington a direct warning, but he would be protecting Tavington just the same. The Colonel would just never learn about it, that's all. They dismounted, climbed the steps, stood before the enemy officers.

"It's good to see you, Gabriel," Tavington said, holding his hand out in offering. For a stunned moment, Gabriel just stood there. Before extending his hand and shaking Tavington's.

"It's good to see you too… William," he said cautiously. "You're looking… better than when last I saw you."

"Yes. Well. A subject I think we can avoid for the sake of this meeting, yes?" Tavington said. His grip was strong. Gabriel turned to Bordon, who looked no where near as friendly. If Tavington could be said to look friendly… There'd be no drop of formalities here, even if the Major was his cousin now.

"Major Bordon," Gabriel said. Bordon inclined his head, said nothing, but he did shake Gabriel's hand.

His brother's followed suit, and then Tavington was leading them into the house. Their house - their home. It looked much as it always had - Beth's doing, no doubt. Even occupied by the British, it was still home, and Gabriel felt an overwhelming comfort when enveloped by its walls. Tavington led them into the parlour, not to Gabriel's father's office. That was a good sign. The Colonel was not going to Lord it over them by sitting behind the massive desk while Gabriel and his brothers stood like school boys about to be berated by the headmaster. They took up seats in the armchairs, the warmth of the fire soothing raw nerves.

"Gabriel," Tavington leaned forward in his chair, his face intent, and somehow melancholy. Without preamble, he said, "I know why you are here. I have to warn you, I can not do anything for your father."

Oh. Tavington thought that was why Gabriel had come. Well, he had come for that, but not quite in the way Tavington thought. Gabriel would not bother wasting his breath begging the Colonel to try to have his father released. That would never happen, not in a million years. But Tavington thought that's why Gabriel had come. Because he didn't know about Dalton and the others. Yet.

"I know," Gabriel said. He shared a quick, worried glance with his brothers. "That's not why I'm here. Well, it is, but…" He was faltering again. Gods. Where to begin? How should he proceed? How do you tell a Commander that a score of his men were murdered? Even an enemy Commander? He drew a heavy breath, noticed he was wringing his hands, forced himself to stop it. The doors opened, a Private entered with a tray of cups. The youth - Gods, how could anyone look so young and still be a soldier? - started handing out hot chocolate of all things, before saluting Tavington and Bordon and retreating. The doors closed. Gabriel was grateful - he had something to do with his hands now. He wrapped them around the hot mug.

As did Thomas. "Hot chocolate. This is my house, William. I know we have stronger than this."

Tavington arched an eyebrow. "How old are you again?"

"I'm a Corporal in the Continental army, not a child of five. Where's the damned whiskey?"

For a wonder, William threw back his head and laughed, which made Thomas laugh too. Gabriel looked back and forth between the chortling pair, thinking they were both mad.

"Just drink it, Tom, for Christ's sake," Nathan muttered. He took a sip and sighed with contentment. "I could be one hundred and this would still be enjoyable."

"It's not better with whiskey," Thomas said.

"We didn't come for damned whiskey," Gabriel snapped and Thomas subsided. Tavington and Bordon were waiting… Where to begin? The start, perhaps. "Several months ago, my uncle escaped the Provost," he paused, gathering his thoughts while he took a sip. Nathan was right, he could be an old grey beard and hot chocolate would still be enjoyable. This was not news to either Officer and they were both startled that he would begin here. He swallowed hard, relished the warmth and taste of the chocolate as it went down. "As you know, he was shot and he fell into the Cooper. He was thought to be dead," he said, meeting their eyes.

"Thought to be…" Bordon whispered, his face turning an ashen grey. "Do you mean he is not?"

Is my father in law alive? That's what he was asking. It suddenly occurred to Gabriel how this might not work for Cilla. Who had known for some while that her father was alive and instead of informing her husband, had spied on him instead. For the very man who was meant to be dead. Her father. Gabriel would have to be very careful, if he was to protect his cousin.

"I will not go into too many details," he said, voice firm. "I am not here to commit treason."

"Not telling us would be the treason," Tavington said, just as firmly.

"Depends on which side you're on," Thomas said.

"This is an old argument between us and I will not waste time having it again now. We both understand the finer points of this," Gabriel said with some sharpness. "I will not betray the Cause, that is not what I've come for. I will give you very little detail and you will either have to accept that, William, or clamp us all in chains now."

"As long as I get my old room, I won't mind," Nathan said wistfully.

"You wouldn't be getting your old room, Nathan," William scoffed. "You'll be lucky to be put in the chook house. I understand the limitations Gabriel. I know you are not here to betray your… Cause. Tell me what you will."

There was a lack of finality to this statement which did not sit well with Gabriel. He did not feel as though Tavington was saying "tell me what you will and then be on your way". To him, it was more like, "tell me what you will and I'll decide later if more should be tortured from you."

"Thank you," Gabriel said politely, choosing to ignore the ill feeling, the suspicion curling his stomach. "Our uncle escaped," he said, making no mention of Watson. Let these men continue to think Watson - a traitor in their eyes - was dead. "He had suffered severe wounding which he could have died from," - Gabriel paused, allowing his deeper meaning to sink in. Both Tavington and Bordon appeared discomforted by Gabriel's words, and well they should be, for many of the wounds to Mark's body were inflicted by them. "If not for the intervention of an old grandmother, who took him in and doctored him. It was a long time before he was able to travel but eventually, he reached us -"

"Before or after your father caught me?" Tavington asked, an edge to his voice.

Damn and blast the man. His alliance with Gabriel's father was tentative at best. He was asking if Benjamin had betrayed him in some way. Well, they were on different sides. He couldn't have expected Benjamin to lay his heart bear now, could he? How much had Tavington left out, during all those late night games of chess with Benjamin?

"Before," Gabriel said, his tone challenging.

"So he knew. I was with him for a week, and he never mentioned a word," Tavington said, voice cold. As if to say 'so much for our alliance'.

"And how much did you leave out?" Gabriel shot back. Tavington snapped his mouth shut. Only for a moment, however.

"And yet here you are, telling me this now. Why?" Tavington challenged.

"Because my uncle has split away from us," Gabriel informed Tavington. Surely he was correct in doing so. It was not treason to say this much. Tavington needed to be informed, so that he would know that Mark was acting on his own now, outside of the command chain. A renegade. The Patriot Commanders can not be held accountable for the unsanctioned actions of a renegade. Hells teeth, this was his own uncle he was speaking about! But it had to be done. "My uncle… You have to understand that when my uncle joined us, he was filled with fury. He has been like a firebrand. He still is like a firebrand. He bares particular enmity toward the two of you," he said, watching as Bordon and Tavington exchanged another look, a look loaded with meaning. A look which spoke volumes between them - of hot pokers and sharp knives and broken bones, of Mark's agonised screams. Oh yes, they well understood why Mark would bear both of them a particular enmity. Tavington and Bordon adopted a deadpan expression, but Gabriel could see beneath the cool veneer. Both men looked… Chastened. Could they be feeling guilt, for the agonies they'd put Mark through in the dungeon? Bordon especially looked aggrieved, likely because he was now married to Mark's daughter. "Everything he has done since joining us, has been done because of all he suffered -" Gabriel paused. At the last moment, he swiftly changed 'by your hands', to: "in the Provost while under your care."

"Are you hear to tell me that, because of us, your uncle has turned apostate?" Tavington asked.

"That's exactly what I'm here to tell you. He's done something, William, something bad," Gabriel said earnestly. He felt Thomas and Nathan tense. "It was not sanctioned by my father or by Burwell, I swear on my dying oath it was not, nor would it ever be. And I tried to stop him. We all did," he glanced at his brothers. "Well not Nathan, he wasn't there. But we did, Tom and I. I think he's gone mad."

"Raving mad," Thomas agreed gravely.

"I think one of you had better tell me what this bad thing is, Gabriel," Tavington said softly, his very tone a threat.

"He killed your men," Gabriel said. He had to gather all his courage to get the words out, but he managed it. Tavington drew himself up, his face became granite.

"Which. Men?" He asked, voice clipped with fury.

Gabriel longed to tell him there'd been a battle. A skirmish. Well, there had been, but the Dragoons had succumbed to the unexpected fire rather quickly, they had not had a chance to put up a fight. He could not call that a battle. Yet, if Dalton and the others had died during battle, that would be so much easier to relay. He wanted, so very much, to lie. But he could not. It was not his way. It might not seem like it at first, but speaking the truth was the only way to come to a peaceful resolution in anything. Even in this.

"The detachment Major Bordon sent to find the brigands who attacked my cousin," Gabriel said. He slumped back in his chair, weary beyond belief. Every ounce of strength seemed to sap from his body. Tavington's face turned white, his lips bloodless. He barely seemed to be able to draw breath. A natural enough reaction when informed of the murder of twenty men.

"You mean, all of them?" Bordon breathed, looking as stunned as Tavington.

"Yes."

"Dalton?"

"All of them, including Ensign Dalton. I'm sorry, Sir, but he was the first one shot," Gabriel replied. Tavington gripped the arms of the chair, his fingers digging in. "We got word that Cilla had left Fresh Water," Gabriel began, speaking slowly, in that same, wearied-beyond-belief voice. "My uncle hoped we'd catch up to her. We had little information, a scant few details, not much to go on. We knew you," he said to Bordon, "had followed her. We did find the place you made camp, which was even more confusing because of the bodies we found there. We saw the tracks leading northward and thought you'd travelled that way with Cilla. And so an ambush was laid, when we received word you were heading back."

"An ambush meant for me?" Bordon whispered, eyes narrowed. He was shaking, Gabriel saw. Struggling to come to terms with Dalton's death. With all of the deaths.

"You especially. He wants you dead, Major. He wants William dead too, but you most of all," Gabriel held Bordon's eyes until the Major lowered his. "Dalton and the others, they walked into the ambush. There was no sign of you or Cilla. I think that drove my uncle a little mad, the discovery that you had already returned to Fresh Water. He seems under the impression that my cousin needs rescuing," he studied Bordon's face intently, trying to judge for himself the truth of that. Bordon merely looked away, lips so tight they were white. Tavington's lips were as tight, for that matter. He looked ready to lurch up from his chair and reach for his carbine. "They had brigands with them," Gabriel continued. "We understood quickly all that had happened - Ensign Dalton told us. I believed him - my uncle didn't. Not until the brigands themselves were forced to admit the truth, that they'd terrorised Cilla. My uncle commanded they be hung, which I agreed with. It was done quickly, all of them hung right there on the spot. Which left us with the Dragoons."

"I blame Farshaw for the rest," Thomas said quietly. Bordon's head came up at the mention of Farshaw, his eyes began to burn.

"What of Farshaw?" He hissed, fists clenching.

"He began ranting about you," Thomas said. Gabriel wished he could kick his brother to shut him up. If he mentioned how Farshaw revealed Cilla's spying, which cornered Mark, forcing him to follow through with a decision he'd no doubt already been contemplating, then these men would know of Cilla's betrayal. And there was no conceivable way Gabriel could protect her. He was powerless to remove her from the house. "Farshaw wants you dead too, by the way."

"I'm certain he does," Bordon's voice was strangled. Gabriel took the opportunity to seize the conversation back from his brother, before Thomas could expand further on Farshaw.

"Yes, Farshaw definitely had a hand in it, though I do believe my uncle is already mad. Farshaw knows of my uncle's fears and he used them against him, driving him on to… To murder," he whispered, eyes downcast. "He told Mark that you've been beating Cilla. That you are always striking her -"

"That's a lie!" Bordon said with such harshness, such indignation, that Gabriel was set on the path toward believing him.

"Mark believes it. That you beat Cilla every single day. Because Farshaw said he'd heard it from the servants," Gabriel told Bordon. "And my uncle already has more than enough reason to believe it of you. He hates you. Believing this… It drove him over the edge. When I commanded that your detachment be readied for travel to one of our prison camps, my uncle overrode me, commanding their immediate executions. I tried to take back command," Gabriel continued, mourning what came next all over again. "I tried to remind him - and all the men - that Mark did not have the authority to issue such a command. It was well outside his authority, and that to obey it was mutiny. I told the men that the detachment was to be taken into custody and escorted to prison camp. But then my uncle started reminding the men of all the atrocities that the British have committed, that Dalton and the rest would have taken part in it and deserved immediate death. He listed them all. The burned houses. Crops destroyed. The hangings. Women and children, disposed or even worse - killed," Gabriel met Tavington's eyes. "I felt my hold over them start slipping away with every word my uncle spoke. I ordered the men to lower their rifles." He was quiet a moment before whispering, "over a score of them heeded me. The remaining fifteen, they opened fire. It happened so fast, it was over as soon as it began."

Silence. A dreadful silence, broken only by Tavington's harsh breathing.

"I tried to stop him," Gabriel said brokenly. "I failed." He stared into the hot chocolate, it'd grown cold in his hands by the time he finished speaking. No one spoke now, not a word passed between them. Tavington rose and strode from the room, Gabriel sensed the Colonel needed a private moment, as he tried to come to terms with the deaths of his men.

"We have come such a long way, Cilla and I," Bordon whispered, eyes glued to the floor. He was wringing his trembling hands. "I'd never hurt her. Not in a million years. I don't beat her. I don't strike her. Farshaw is lying. He's a Goddamned liar." He'd just been informed of the deaths of his men, and this was what he spoke of? He looked wretched and tired and bereaved, and Gabriel had the distinct feeling it was all because of Cilla. Did the Major care so deeply for her?

"Can we see her?" Nathan asked. Bordon rose heavily, like a man three decades older. At a gesture from him, Gabriel and his brothers followed him upstairs.

"If she's awake, she may not recognise you. She's very ill," he said over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs. They walked down the hall, staring wistfully toward the rooms that used to be theirs, as Bordon led them to Beth's old room. It smelled like a sickroom now, of herbs and spices and a thin veil of vomit. Cilla lay beneath the covers, dark blonde hair matted to her skull, slick with sweat. A woman sat beside her, an older woman Gabriel had never seen before. Mila stood at the side of the bed, fixing the covers. She gave Gabriel a shocked look.

"How is she?" Gabriel asked her, for he knew and trusted her. Bordon didn't seem to care, he sat heavily in the chair nearest to where Cilla laid her head and he took her hand. He stared down at her as if the boys had ceased to exist. Gabriel could see Cilla's nose - big and black and broken.

"We're not sure yet," Mila said. Her stomach was swollen with child, but apart from that, she looked no different. "Mrs. Andrews is doing everything she can and the doctor is too. I think she's strong. She survived the yellow fever and a miscarriage -" a small sound escaped Bordon, almost a whimper. Of grief. Mourning his lost child? The damned bastard - he was making Gabriel view him in a whole new light. Mila hurried on, having heard it also. "She's strong, I think she will be well."

Gabriel nodded, though he did not put much store in her words. No one could tell how an illness would take a person - strong or not. So Cilla had survived the yellow fever and a miscarriage. What of it? Both of those might have weakened her body beyond repair so that the flux she was suffering now might very well take her. That she had survived the others was certainly not an indication that she would survive this. He longed to wake her, to ask her the truth of her situation with Bordon. But somehow he didn't think he'd get any sense out of her awake, not in this state. The boys stood at the bedside, awkward as they stared down at their cousin.

"Oh here, wait," Nathan said, darting from the room. He returned a few minutes later with strip of leather dangling from his fingers. And dangling from that was an oddly shaped pendant. Not a pendant, Gabriel saw when Nathan picked up Cilla's lax hand and slipped the loop up her wrist. A rabbits foot. It was the first rabbit Nathan had ever shot, and he'd held on to the foot for luck for years. He was passing it on to Cilla, now. For luck.

Which meant, of course, that Nathan had gone into his chamber for it. Fortuitous for him the new occupants must not have been in there… Bordon lifted an eyebrow - he must have come to the same conclusion as Gabriel, just as quickly. But he said nothing of Nathan lurking in his old chamber. Lucky rabbits foot indeed.

"Have you heard anything of Beth?" Mila asked.

"I hear things," Gabriel said carefully, because of Bordon and because he didn't know how much Mila knew of Beth's current circumstances. "I believe she is well enough." Mila sighed, it sounded relieved. Cilla began to stir.

"Perhaps it would be best if you say your farewells and leave. I do not want my patient disturbed," the woman - who Gabriel took to be Mrs. Andrews - piped up.

"Don't take the rabbit's foot away from her," Nathan said.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Mrs. Andrews said, clearly amused. The voices roused Cilla further. She blinked her eyes open, looked quite confused when her eyes landed on them. She gave them no look of recognition, not even a smile. She shifted her head on the pillow as if searching, only relaxing when her eyes landed on Bordon. Then, she smiled. It lit up her entire face, despite the broken nose. He was staring at her avidly. She lifted the hand he'd been holding, reached it up and stroked her fingers along his cheek.

"Richard," she murmured. Just one word, yet it sounded full of love. The Major seized her hand, pressed her palm to his lips, then wrapped the fingers of both his hands around hers.

"Still here," he said. Cilla seemed to melt, subsiding back into a doze with that smile still on her lips. Only one word, but there was no need for more. Not from her, not from Bordon. The actions of both spoke louder than any words from either. Farshaw, Gabriel knew in that moment, was a filthy, Goddamned liar. She'd tried to escape Fresh Water, the reason for which was still very much unexplained. Her glaringly obvious love for Bordon made Gabriel certain that is was not because the Major was beating her.

"He is unfaithful," Farshaw had said. "With my wife. He brings shame to your daughter, every damned night."

Not every man was faithful in his marriage. Although Bordon himself was looking at Cilla like a man in love, it didn't mean he hadn't strayed. And his affair with Harmony Farshaw was well known, well before he married Cilla. Perhaps that was the reason Cilla had fled. She was sick and tired of the shame. And of the man she loved - her husband - being unfaithful. That'd be enough to make any woman flee. Perhaps that was too much of a leap to make, without knowing more, but Gabriel thought that explanation was far more likely, than Bordon striking and beating her. Farshaw had just been trying to fuel Mark's rage by playing to his fears. And it'd worked a damned treat.

"We'll go," he said. He did not feel like he was abandoning her. Not that he could have removed her from Fresh Water, it would have been impossible. Now, seeing her, seeing the gestures between the Major and his wife, Gabriel didn't feel any need to try. He held the door open for his brothers. One last look back into the chamber showed Bordon, his eyes closed, leaning his face in to Cilla's hand.

They were in the parlour again, without Bordon this time. The Major stayed upstairs with his wife, nursing his grief, no doubt. A much composed Tavington sat in the same chair as earlier, with Gabriel and the boys in theirs.

"Where is your uncle, Gabriel?" Tavington asked, eyes narrowed. He wanted vengeance now, Gabriel could almost feel the need emanating from the Colonel's body.

"I do not know. I will have to try to find him, though. When I inform General Burwell of his mutiny, my uncle will likely be arrested and even…" hanged? Would Burwell hang Mark? Would Burwell see the Dragoon executions as Gabriel saw them? As murder? Surely he would? Gabriel knew a moment of doubt. This was why he should have gone to Burwell first. He should not be sitting there, second guessing his own commanders course of action.

"You came to me before General Burwell?" Tavington asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Yes," Gabriel heaved the word sullenly. "I don't know why. Not truly. I should have gone to my Superiors. I'll probably be stripped of my rank or worse, for coming here." He exchanged a worried glance with his brothers.

"I offered you a position in my own Regiment once," Tavington's lips quirked upward, cool amusement. "I know I said it wouldn't be offered a second time, but… It is still open, Gabriel."

"Hey, what about me?" Thomas cried, throwing his hands up before Gabriel had a chance to speak. "I'm an Officer now, too!"

"Would you care to join my Dragoons, Corporal Martin?" William asked, amused. "I would make you a Cornet."

"Nah, I ain't no turncoat. It just bothered me that you were asking him and not to me," Thomas said and William shook his head.

"Nor will I turncoat," Gabriel said, voice harsh. "I came to you first because... I needed you to know that my uncle is acting outside of Burwell's authority. I came to ask… no, to beg… William, my father is in prison. What will be done to him, when the British learn of what my uncle did? Will they take it out on him, will the abuse him?"

William's features softened. "Ah. That's why you've come."

"Not just for that, though it is a concern. I came because you had a right to know about Dalton and I wanted you to hear about it from someone who was there," Gabriel said hurriedly. "I know you favoured him and for good reason - he was a good man. I needed to be the one to tell you. And I needed you to know that I tried to stop it. I need you to know that none of my uncle's actions are sanctioned. He is working alone. And you are in danger. You and Bordon both. He wants you dead."

"Clearly," Tavington bit off.

"No, I mean, he really wants you dead," he glanced at his brothers, and both of them drew back in on themselves. He could not reveal much more without telling Tavington about the cipher and seal, and he'd already decided against that.

"So I gathered," Tavington cocked his head to one side, a questioning look on his face, sensing Gabriel had more to say.

"Just be careful, alright?" Gabriel said, lurching to his feet. He couldn't bring himself to reveal more. He was a Continental Soldier, an Officer. It was treason. Burwell might be able to turn it around. Seize the seal and cipher from Mark and use them himself, for the Cause. He would not give up such a valuable weapon. He'd just have to make sure they weren't used against Tavington and Bordon. Not to murder them, anyway.

And if Burwell decided Mark's plan was perfectly fine after all, Gabriel could always get word to Tavington then.

"Keep your eyes open for an ambush," Thomas said. Gabriel froze where he stood, staring down at his brother, aghast. Would he reveal more than that? Thomas was staring hard at Tavington. Gabriel whirled to see the Colonel's reaction. Tavington's eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead.

"I always do. Is there a plan in place, Thomas? Would you care to share it?" He asked. Gabriel gave a minute shake of his head. For a wonder, Thomas heeded it. Sort of.

"Our uncle plans to lure you into an ambush. We were quite willing to go along with the plan," Thomas shrugged unapologetically. "Just like we were when our father did it. But that was until we realised our uncle means to kill you both. We thought we were just going to capture you, but he plans to murder you both. After seeing Cilla upstairs just now, I don't think she'd like that very much."

So, Thomas had seen it also.

"And I don't think that Beth would like it eith -"

"Shut it, Thomas," Nathan and Gabriel said at the same time. Thomas snapped his mouth shut and glared at them both.

"And papa wouldn't approve," Thomas finished. "I think he likes you, the stupid old goat."

Gabriel gaped. Thomas had just called their father a stupid old goat! In their father's own home! Gabriel instinctively looked toward the door, half expecting their father to come charging in, then and there. But even with the man miles away - and in prison to boot - it was still an outrageously dangerous thing to say.

"And I admit I have a grudging fondness for him, the stupid old goat," Tavington murmured. "Thank you for the warning, Thomas. I will inform His Lordship of all of that you have told me. I'm certain that he will be moved to protect your father from retaliation. I will recommend as much and I'm certain he will heed me."

"Thank you," Gabriel breathed, a weight lifting from his shoulders. It wasn't a perfect solution, the promise was not iron clad, Tavington was at the mercy of his superiors every bit as much as Gabriel was. But it was more than he'd had before coming here.

"Tell me, did he manage to extricate your sister from Tarleton's camp before he was captured?"

"No, he did not," Gabriel said reluctantly. Tavington curled his lip. Gabriel could hear the grinding of his teeth from a yard away.

"Do you want her away from him for herself or to save your name?" Gabriel asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I loved my wife, Gabriel. I love her still. But if you think I'd want her back as she is now, with her raving over my so called infidelity, you are very much mistaken. Besides, how many months has she been in his bed now? Two? Even longer?"

"I know," Gabriel sighed, futility overwhelming him again.

"My wife has ruined herself. She has disgraced me. Frankly, I'd rather be captured and executed, than deal with the shame of that. But I will do as I must," Tavington said through clenched teeth. "I will extricate her myself, though in truth, I wish I never had to lay my eyes on her again."

Gabriel crossed the chamber. He pulled back a panel in the wall, one he didn't think Tavington had seen before. It contained several much prized bottles of his father's favourite whiskeys, a brew so smooth it slid down the throat and warmed the stomach without any of the harsh burning. He didn't think his father would mind. He collected together four glasses, handed them out - even to Nathan, who was not truly a boy anymore. Tavington's eyes were on him all the while, as he held out his glass for Gabriel to pour. When they all had a healthy measure, Gabriel put the bottle down, then raised his glass.

"To Beth," he said. He had no idea why. He hadn't meant to speak any such thing. For some reason, this toast had Thomas roaring with laughter and Gabriel was even more baffled when Tavington threw his head back and laughed with him. Like a madmen. His sense of humour must be as odd as Thomas', if all that chortling was anything to go by. Gabriel shared a confused look with Nathan. He shrugged, and as one, they knocked their glasses back and drained the whiskey in one swallow.

"To Beth," Tavington agreed, his laughter finally subsiding.