Chapter 139 - Thomas Visits with Family:
Thomas was dying. He slumped in the saddle, rain pouring from the brim of his hat down his sodden great cloak, he rode hunched over himself as if nursing a terrible wound. Nathan slapped his back in sympathy. Or perhaps it was to help bring up the phlegm, as Thomas had begun coughing again. Snot ran down his nose, he wiped it on the back of his wet glove. He heaved a sigh and thanked the great lord above that they'd arrived to Mr. Singleton's Plantation, after having finally received word of his whereabouts. The dark mass of the Great House was visible through the driving rain now and Thomas urged his horse forward, wanting to reach a nice warm fire as quickly as possible. Watson, Nathan and the others did likewise. When they reached the steps, Thomas fell ungracefully from the saddle, tied off his horse and clumped up to the porch.
"Where are Mr. Putman's men?" Watson asked and Thomas gave a shrug. How the hell would he know? It had been at least a month since he'd last seen Mark, he couldn't know anything more about his uncle's militia than Nicholas did. Nor did he care, they were likely off wintering with their families or somewhat. But he supposed Nicholas was right - surely a sentry should have challenged them before now? Thomas wasn't thinking about any of that - his thoughts were solely on the prospect of a warm fire. And a warm brandy. Or whiskey. He was quite partial to whiskey, these days. Both the fire and the whiskey would go a long way to healing him right up.
In truth, if he was forced to admit it, he would have to say that he wasn't as sick as he had been. He was actually starting to get better; the stupid cold was running its course, at long last. To think he'd be inflicted with such a terrible flux, when he needed to be in the saddle the most. Was he struck down when the time came to follow Cilla's trail when she fled Fresh Water? No. Was he struck down with it on the ride to Fresh Water, when he and his brothers decided to inform William of his twenty murdered Dragoons? No. Was he struck down with it while waiting at Henrietta Rutledge's Plantation, where he and his brothers had waited for instructions from Burwell? No. Was he struck down with it, when Burwell's missive arrived, instructing Nicholas and Thomas to begin the search for Mark Putman, in order to gain back the seal and cipher, in order to rescue Thomas' father? No.
When he finally learned where Mark was, that was when his body decided it no longer wanted to be the healthy, strong body Thomas needed it to be. That was when it decided to revolt against him, bringing on such chills and lethargy and vomiting that he hadn't been able to stir from his bed for an entire week.
His body had wanted to remain in bed for a month, but Thomas drew the line at six days. His father was still in the prison camp, had been for months now, he needed to be rescued, before he bloody well died. Burwell had given them his instructions and they had been delayed long enough. He and the others were on a mission to rescue his father, so what his wanted and what it got were two entirely different things. As soon as he was a little stronger, he forced himself out of his sick bed. Morning after morning for two days now, he climbed into his not so nice, wet, cold saddle, where he could not sleep but he did feel wretched. Day after day of being snot nose and red faced and coughing. What a way to recuperate. It wasn't something he'd recommend.
The door was already opening, he let Watson announce who they were and then followed Nathan into the candlelit hall. Thomas wondered what the mood of the house was, with Mark being reunited with his wife, who was living beneath the same roof as Charlotte. Both of whom had bedded Major Bordon. Didn't it bother Mark at all, that his wife had been in Bordon's bed? He'd condoned it at the time, for the information she was gaining for the Cause. He called it their sacrifice. Thomas thought that was a load of pig shit, but perhaps there everything was fine between Mark and Mage, perhaps it was only Thomas that her affair bothered. But what of Mage and Charlotte? Were the two women jealous of one another, two former mistresses tossed together in close proximity, two women who'd had the same lover?
A negro woman with a stern face was glaring at him and he snapped out of his thoughts to glance at his boots, becoming very aware of how wet and mucky they were and of the mud he'd trampled inside. Dropping back against one wall, he pulled them off his feet, then pulled off his wet socks for good measure. Upstairs, a baby wailed. Thomas knew just how the infant felt, he wished he could wail and tantrum as well.
"Nate! Thomas!" A girls voice shrilled and Thomas looked up to see his sister Susan hurtling down the stairs two at a time. He saw Anne make a vain grab for the lass, but Susan slipped through her fingers. All Anne could do then was watch with a horrified hand over her mouth as Susan threw herself down the stairs two at a time until she was leaping up into Thomas' arms. Thomas would have pushed the girl away because he was sodden and filthy and he was going to ruin her pretty dress, but she was too excited and he did not want to offend her. If she didn't care, then, he wouldn't either. He brushed back one of her pretty blonde curls. Gods, she was getting heavy, she was growing so much! And Anne - she looked strange, her stomach looked so big now. Thomas didn't think she'd appreciate the observation, however. She, and then Margaret, made a much more sedate descent. It made Thomas laugh, he was about to twit his sister for trying to copy Anne's natural dignity and grace, when Susan piped up again, the words like a punch to the gut winding him. "Aunt Mage is dead," she said, gazing up at him with two very large, blue eyes. "Papa isn't going to die too, is he?"
"What?" Thomas gasped out, his mouth falling open wide. "What?!"
"I'd hoped to tell you more gently than this," Anne said, coming to a stop before him, Margaret at her side.
"Hell's teeth," Nathan breathed. Anne's eyes grew to the size of saucers, but Nathan did not notice, his gaze was fixed on Thomas, as if expecting his older brother to tell him it wasn't so. Thomas shook his head, stunned.
"Oh my God, Mrs. Martin! What happened?" Lieutenant Nicholas Watson asked Anne.
"Why don't we sit down?" Anne gestured toward the parlour, giving them something to do, instructing them when they were too shocked to recall what they should be doing. "And take your wet things off first."
They were soon seated in the parlour. Charlotte and Mark joined them, Mark sat with his head in his hands, Charlotte held the baby that had killed its mother. Thomas looked to Susan, the grown child whose birthing had killed Thomas' mother. His mind could barely encompass it all. The thing, the boy, looked so innocent, so utterly unaware. Did he even know what he'd done? The midwives had cut Mage open to get him free of her…
Thomas cringed and looked away.
"I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Putman," Nicholas said.
Thomas thought that was the right thing to say, the thing that was usually said to a person whose loved one had just died. But… This was Aunt Mage he was speaking about. How could she possibly be dead? Men died - soldiers died - on the field of battle. He'd grown accustomed to that. It was expected. A comrade you set out with in the morning might not be with you by nightfall. But to come to the women of his family and find one of them had died? It shocked him. It wasn't meant to be that way. The baby squirmed against Charlotte's chest, his small face nestled into her neck, eyes shut. He looked so warm and peaceful. Thomas tried to recall Susan when she was first born, had she nestled as sweetly against Abigail? As uncaring, as this small boy, as their mother's life drained from her?
"I'm so sorry, uncle Mark," he found himself repeating after Nathan said it. That's what you're supposed to do, when a person lost a loved one. Dear God above. Mark scrubbed his face with his hands, he needed a shave. His blonde hair was unkempt. There were dark rings under his eyes.
"What are you doing here?" He asked harshly. "Last I saw of any of you, you renounced me and turned your back. Why are you here?"
"Brother," Charlotte laid one graceful hand on Mark's arm, fingers alighting softly as if she might draw the tension out from his body. He did soften. Slightly.
"I can not believe you came merely to visit the children," he said, his voice slightly politer. "You must have told Burwell by now. What does he say of it?"
Of Mark overextending himself, of reaching beyond the authority Burwell had placed upon him in his executing of those Dragoons.
"It can wait," Nicholas said, spreading his hands wide.
"The hell it can," Thomas said, drawing himself up. "I'm sorry, I truly am. If there was a better time, I'd wait but hell. Father's time is slipping by, hour by hour, day by day. As it is, he'll be stuck in that prison camp for at least another week. We can not wait, we must be on our way."
"On your way where?" Mark asked.
Thomas saw the girls share concerned glances with the olderwomen. No. It wasn't fair to call Margaret a girl, only Susan could be called such now. Margaret was four months past fifteen years old now, she was as much a woman as Anne was. She hadn't been imitating Anne, she'd been acting as a young woman of breeding aught.
Would that Beth had learned that lesson…
"To get papa free of the Lobsters," Nathan said and Mark's eyes widened.
"What is this?"
"An offer, from General Burwell," Nicholas said. "You can't hide from justice, Mr. Putman. You and your men will be taken into custody, peacefully or not, and you will be tried by court marshal."
"And we will hang," Mark said, lifting his head, his lips thin, face too pale. Now Thomas found himself wondering where Mark's men were, the militia who had sided with him, who had assisted in the executing of a score of Dragoons. Could he, Nathan, Nicholas and the others arrest Mark themselves? Should they? Wasn't he already going through enough?
"Not necessarily," Nicholas said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Charlotte stroked the babies back and rocked gently. "We have come with an offer from General Burwell. We can arrest you now and take you to him for Court Martial. Or. General Burwell promises that long as you co-operate now, he will do everything in his power to keep your neck from the noose. And his power is quite considerable. I will show you the letter he sent to me, I believe he means to sweep the whole thing under the carpet, or at the very least, downplay your role in it. You'll be able to continue to live your life, to maintain your businesses, to raise your son," he pointed at the baby. "But not without General Burwell's assistance."
"And what will his… assistance… cost me?" Mark asked.
"The seal and cipher," Nicholas replied without missing a beat. Mark grew tense. "They were never yours, Mr. Putman, you should have given them to Burwell long ago. To keep them is treason, such weapons as they must only be used for the Cause, not for personal vendettas. If you wish to escape justice, to have the crime of murdering twenty men forgiven, you are to give me the cipher in order for me to use at his direction. Frankly, General Burwell needs Colonel Martin. And your nephews and your nieces, need their father to not die in a prison camp. How much, exactly, is your life worth to you? And the lives of your men? This is a very generous offer, I encourage you to take it."
"Why? You going to try and rescue him?" Mark asked.
The girls - the women - drew a collected breath and held it, eyes wide and staring at Mark. General Burwell had been right to nominate Nicholas Watson the speaker, rather than Thomas and Nathan. Nathan was too timid for this sort of negotiation and Thomas would have resorted to screaming obscenities and charging around like an angry bull. Watson, however, knew how to strike. Mark's eyes slid toward his excited nieces and nephew, and back again.
"An easy enough feat with the right equipment," Nicholas said. "Yes, we're going to get Martin out of prison camp and to a place where he can recover."
"Recover!" Margaret gasped. "Is he ill?"
Thomas and the other boys had no idea, either way. But Nicholas had sown the seed and now he played to it, deliberately coaxing worry and fear.
"He is being kept in squalor, his cabin is open to the elements, he is barely being fed, he could be dying as we speak," Nicholas said, hitting hard, doing nothing to soften the blow. Why would he try to reassure the women, when he wanted them on side, helping to convince Mark? Thomas wanted to tell him to stop, for Margaret was turning a sickly shade of green and Susan had started to cry. But as awful as this was, this distressing of his own sisters, he knew it was needful. "Give us the seal and cipher, allow us to use them in the recovery of your brother, and General Burwell will speak on your behalf, when the time comes for your court marshal. Indeed, if you do this, I do not believe there will even be a court marshal."
"Oh, please, uncle," Margaret gasped out, shifting in her seat to face Mark. He gave her a stricken look. Mark had disowned the Martin family, but it was clear to Thomas that Margaret, Susan and William were not included in his disavowal.
"It costs you nothing," Charlotte said, gripping Mark's sleeve. "And gives us everything."
"You speak for him too?" Mark sounded incredulous and Thomas wondered what Charlotte had been telling him. That his father had spurned her? Had she told her brother the reason why? Had she dared? "You're considering marrying Mr. Singleton," he said as if reminding her.
"That is neither here nor there. Benjamin is our sister's husband. He is the father of our sister's children. Children we love. He is part of our family and he needs to be rescued and here are your nephews, willing to risk their lives to see it done. Can you truly do no less?" Mark's lips tightened; Charlotte pressed him. "For our sister, Mark. Gods," she broke, tears welling. She did not shed them, but her voice was raw. "And for me."
Thomas gave her a startled, confused look, before shifting his attention to Mark. He could see the conflict warring across Mark's face. To see Benjamin freed, Mark would have to abandon his quest for vengeance. Thomas couldn't understand why the man was burning to see Tavington and Bordon dead, but surely his need for vengeance was not stronger than his obligation to his own family? Would he really let Thomas' father rot in the pit of doom, to see Bordon and Tavington killed? He was about to ask, when Mark slumped back in his chair.
"Very well, I accept," he said, much to Thomas's vast relief. "If it means you'll not hang my men… I'll have Farshaw draft up several letters for you, he is quite well practiced in O'Hara's handwriting and can recreate it perfectly. I suggest you account for several different scenarios and choose the letter you need accordingly. Watson, you will help him with the wording, you know better than anyone what eventualities must be accounted for. For now, if you'll excuse me," he left the room quickly, as if he could no longer endure the sight of them. By now, refreshments were being carried in and a negro woman informed them that water was being heated for the men to bathe in. Thomas wondered where this Mr. Singleton was. He wondered where Farshaw was, too. Was it going to take long, the drafting of the letters? Thomas itched with the need to be on his way again; the sooner gone, the sooner there, the sooner they could rescue his father. If nothing went wrong… Gods, no, now was not the time to start worrying about that. Coughing, he wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"Disgusting," Margaret said, wrinkling her nose as she handed him a kerchief.
"You look dreadful," Charlotte observed.
"Thomas has seen better days," Nicholas replied for him.
"I'm on the mend though," Thomas added.
"You do not look it and you do not sound it. Perhaps you should stay here a few days, to rest?"
"Aunt, do you know what a disaster that might prove to be?" Thomas asked, somehow making his voice firm, without revealing the depth of his fear. She nodded, then leaned back in the chair and caressed her nose along the baby's cheek.
"How is my husband?" Anne asked, reminding Thomas that she was, indeed, married to Gabriel. It was hard to imagine at times, Gabriel a married man. To Anne Howard, no less. It made him think of Colin's sister, Miss Lucy Ferguson, the girl he still had designs on marrying. Would he make it there, one day? Would Nathan find it as incredulous, as Thomas found Gabriel's marrying Anne?
Had Charlotte found it just as strange, when her older brother married Mage Middleton? Thomas' heart clenched on a stab of grief.
"He was well when last I saw him," Thomas said, turning to the mundane despite the earth shattering blow his family had suffered. He hoped, prayed it fervently, that there was not another blow to come. They would get father free of the prison camp, he could feel it in his bones. No point worrying. No point dwelling. "He talks of you an annoying amount," Thomas said, "reckon if he'd known our uncle was with you when we set out to find him, Gabriel would have ignored Burwell's command to rejoin him in the north."
Anne smiled, blue eyes bright. "An annoying amount, hmm?" She said, seeming well pleased by this. They discussed Gabriel for a little while longer, spoke of the battles and their travels with the army.
"And Beth?" Margaret asked, eager to hear tell of her sister. Thomas looked at her, gave her a good, long stare.
What would they do, if Margaret turned out like Beth? It was good she was here with Anne, he suddenly decided, despite being on the verge of twitting her earlier. He realised now that it could only be a good thing, having such a role model in her sister in law, a thing Margaret failed to have in a sister. Thomas felt another pang but he stifled this one. He loved Beth dearly and had been her champion so often before, but now… What she was doing… He wondered if perhaps he should not have championed her before. Had they all gone wrong with her? Letting her ride and hunt like a man; hell, her own brothers had taught her everything they knew. She'd had no female figure to learn from, to base her conduct on, until their father finally relented and sent her to Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Mage. Not like Margaret, who was looking to Anne for that. Beth had had Charlotte and honestly, Charlotte was no better than Beth! The image of Charlotte up against the wall, legs wrapped around Bordon's waist, his breeches around his knees… Thomas shoved the image away as if it were a viper. Was it any wonder that Beth had turned out the way she had, with only brothers and a harlot to raise her? Two harlots, for Aunt Mage had bedded Bordon too. Thomas felt a flare of anger at his father, who'd spent so long grieving his wife, his inattention might as well have ruined his eldest daughter. Then came a stab of guilt, for thinking ill of the man who was living in such desperate circumstances, he surely deserved nothing but Thomas' sympathy. His father was sitting in a prison camp for goodness sake, now was not the time to throw stones or cast aspersions. Still, Beth was bringing their family to the brink of disaster - again! - and Thomas was well pleased that with Anne to model herself from, it was very unlikely that Margaret would do the same.
"She was well, the last I heard," Thomas lied. What else could he do? He ignored Nathan's incredulous stare. What did Nate want him to do, tell his sisters the truth? That Beth was off whoring herself with Banastre Tarleton?
"You did not go to Fresh Water?" Margaret seemed greatly disappointed.
"No. They're not there, Tavington shifted out a short while ago. Lord, who is going to tell Cilla?" They'd avoided speaking of Mage until now, but her passing was in the forefront of their minds. "She can't know already? Have you sent word to her?"
"I believe Mark intended to tell her in person," Charlotte said and Thomas felt the air woosh from his stomach. Mark had intended to kill Bordon, freeing Cilla of her unwanted marriage, of taking her in hand and caring for her himself. All of that had changed now, he was going to give up the seal and cipher, and his dreams of vengeance with them.
"He is wrong about them anyway," Thomas said softly. Charlotte cocked her head. "About Bordon and Cilla. He loves her, I'm certain of it. And she loves him. I'm certain of that, too. Sure, Middleton arranged it all and she might've been forced to marry Bordon," and was that really enough to kill the man? "But no matter how they came together, they are happy with each other now."
"How could you possibly know this?" Charlotte asked with a grimace. At the mention of Bordon? Likely. Was she jealous that her niece was married to the man she… The image rose again and again, Thomas banished it, though he was unable to shove away the flare of anger at Charlotte.
"I saw them together," he said, forthright, ruthless, refusing to care if it bought Charlotte pain. Did she love Bordon? No. She'd bedded him out of necessity. To protect Thomas' father. So she said. Maybe she only said that in the hope that his father would still marry her, after it became clear that Bordon wouldn't. "We went to Fresh Water under parlay, to tell Tavington about the men our uncle killed. We had just learned that papa had been captured by the British and we were worried that they would take those deaths out on him. While we were there, we asked to see Cilla, who was terribly sick. I've heard she is much better now, but back then… she was dreadful ill. Almost as sick as I was this last week." He ignored Nathan's scoff of derision, instead he studied Charlotte's expression for any hint of jealousy, for any hint that she was in love with Bordon. What sort of woman lifted her skirts and offered her quim as a means to distract a soldier from his duty? A prostitute in want of coin might. But surely his Aunt Charlotte could have conceived of a more appropriate method? No. The first thing she thought of was to fuck the man. Thomas was unable to quell the flare of contempt and disgust. Christ, between her brothers and her Aunts, Beth had never stood a chance.
Ho! Was that why Mark was so intent on killing Bordon? For bedding his wife, his sister and then marrying his daughter? Good God, the thought struck like a bell ringing, leaving Thomas gaping. Thomas would hate any man who dared to make him a cuckold. Sure, Mark had agreed with the idea, but Bordon hadn't known it. He'd known Mark, he'd dined in Mark's home. And he had bedded Mark's wife. No mater what Mark's motive in allowing it to happen, Bordon had shown utter disrespect, in the taking of Mark's wife. Hells teeth, it fit so perfectly, it had to be so! Mark wanted to kill Bordon for bedding his wife, his sister, and for marrying his daughter! It left Thomas reeling, all the pieces had fallen into place, it all fit so perfectly. He finally understood what had driven Mark into such a frenzy, a bloodlust aimed at Bordon.
"You saw them together when Cilla was sick?" Charlotte prompted. The new understanding, the startling revelation had so filled Thomas's head, he'd quite forgotten what he'd been saying.
"When Gabriel, Nate and me went to Fresh Water. William let us up to visit Cilla, she was right sick with a flux." He wiped his nose again, he knew now how Cilla must have been feeling! "It must have been catching, because I got sick straight after."
"Three weeks after, and you weren't as sick as she was," Nathan scoffed again.
"Shut it, Nate. Bordon was at her side, looking worried sick, like he hadn't slept in days. And Cilla was murmuring things about Bordon in her sleep like we wasn't there, she kept reaching her hand out to him and all. Aye, Nate?"
Nathan was nodding agreement. Charlotte scowled. Jealous? That her niece had found happiness with the man she herself had wanted?
"For goodness sake, do not say any of that in your uncle's hearing," she said. "Not if you want his co-operation."
"Why?" Thomas asked bluntly. "It's the simple truth. It's about time everyone accepted their marriage." And I mean you too, Thomas thought defiantly, certain Charlotte was still carrying a torch for her lover.
"Accept their marriage," Charlotte breathed, looking stunned. "Are you forgetting Bordon tortured him?"
"I -"
Damn and blast it.
Forgotten wasn't really the right word. It was just… to Thomas, that had happened in a different life. A life before William married Beth, before he became a man Thomas actually liked. And it was before Bordon married Cilla, before he became a man that Thomas could clearly see was in love with his wife. No, he hadn't forgotten… He'd just… forgotten. He wasn't making the connection between the two men of now and the two men of before, though he guessed that Mark would not ever see the distinction. And nor should Thomas, really, he knew. He couldn't just up and forgive William for torturing his uncle, just because he liked William now.
William had been a party to the torture, but it had always seemed to Thomas as though Mark hated Bordon the greater. And now Thomas understood why. Not that he would say any of it now. Especially not now.
"We haven't forgotten," Nate said, looking as startled as Thomas, as if he too had forgotten without forgetting. Thomas was glad he wasn't the only one. "It's just, we whipped him, you know. William, I mean. Well, I didn't. But da did, and Gabriel and Thomas. William was whipped until his back was stripped and bloody. I don't think anyone could go through something like that and still be the same man. The score was settled."
"Oh, do, please, go ahead and tell that to your uncle," Charlotte said scathingly, looking appalled. "That the score is settled. A whipping; in return for hours of torture. Please, do."
"Mrs. Selton," Anne said, a gentle warning. Or a plea. Either one, Charlotte took it to heart and she heaved a breath, Thomas watched her as she struggled to wrestle herself back into her polite facade. A lady of gentle rearing and good manners. Who wrapped her legs around Bordon and - Jesus, would you stop seeing it! Thomas growled to himself.
Her voice was polite, calm, smooth, even as she pointed out, gently, that "it was two men who tortured your uncle. And only one was whipped? I fail to see how settles the score."
She was right, of course. Damn and blast her.
"You didn't seem to mind Bordon all that much back at Fresh Water," Nathan said and Thomas's eyes bulged almost as much as Charlotte's did.
"Can we talk about something else?" Margaret asked hurriedly, her face burning crimson. She'd seen it, her and Beth. And Brownlow and Tavington and half the damned staff, too. "Something that isn't going to make us quarrel."
"Alright," Thomas said, noting how Charlotte shifted slightly in her seat to subtly turn her back to them. "Why don't you tell us what you've been doing with yourself since your return to civilisation?"
Talk steered to a safer path, they avoided speaking of anything that might provoke them to another heated discussion.
Baths had been drawn at Mark's command and by the time the boys were dressed again, Mr. Singleton had arrived back home and the letters hadn't been completed. He kept Thomas and Nathan in conversation and before they knew it, it was almost dinner time. They allowed themselves to be coaxed into spending at least one night, for there surely was nothing to be gained by setting out in the dark. They allowed themselves to be settled into nice, warm beds, just for one night. Not even an entire night, not truly; for the boys were up well before dawn and were preparing to leave by lantern light. Thomas had had to force himself out of his bed, he'd wanted to stay between those blankets with the banked fire only a few feet away, for the next two weeks. But his father had no such luxury, and Thomas forced himself from his. The sooner gone, the sooner to Winnsboro, the sooner they could free his father. Then they could all enjoy the simple freedoms of a warm bed and a fire. Mark and Watson had dictated to Farshaw several letters to cover every conceivable scenario that they might face. Nicholas was to judge the circumstances and gage which one he should use. They had the seal and cipher to carry back to Burwell, the letters, the Redcoat uniforms Nicholas had acquired. They were ready. All there was left now was to get there. Thomas shoved a pair of dirty, wet socks into his bag, then threw it over his shoulder. No one else was up, only a few slaves and the boys. Thomas had a brief flare of guilt. Mr. Singleton had shown Aunt Charlotte an attentiveness she did not deserve, he was ready to marry her, thinking she was simply Mrs. Selton, as devout a Christian as Mr. Singleton had shown himself to be. She was anything but. She'd been having an affair with Thomas' father for years, and then a nasty little fling with Bordon… Surely Mr. Singleton deserved a warning? Was there time to pen a letter, or should he wake the man up and tell him? He did love Aunt Charlotte, but could he condemn an innocent gentleman to a life with her, after all she'd done? She was not the innocent Mr. Singleton thought her to be.
"Tom, get moving!" Nate hissed, giving Thomas a shove toward the door. Heaving a sigh, Thomas decided to let it go. Charlotte was his Aunt, his own flesh and blood. And she'd suffered too, Thomas knew that. Perhaps marriage was the thing that would settle her down.
Like it'd settled Beth down.
He almost laughed. Pulling open the door, he stepped out into the hall and headed for the stairs, away from Mr. Singleton's room. Once outside and mounted - in the damned pouring rain again! - Watson edged his horse closer to Thomas and Nathan. They were not alone, the men who'd accompanied them - Thomas's father's men - carried fire brands that threatened to hiss to darkness with every rain drop. Keeping his voice low, Watson whispered, "Mr. Putman has blonde hair."
"Yeh," Thomas said, eyebrows down, one side of his face quirking upward as if to say 'you're a madman'. "Blonde hair. Sure."
"Mrs. Putman had blonde hair," Watson pressed. "Mrs. Bordon has blonde hair."
"Alright… are you feeling well?" Maybe Watson had caught Thomas's cold.
"In the right light, that babies hair looks red," Watson said, even more quietly. "Where'd he get his red hair from?"
"…Bordon…?" Nathan breathed. Watson nodded sharply as if his own suspicions were now confirmed.
"Mark might think that boy is his, but damn me to hell if I can't see otherwise."
"Jesus," Thomas muttered, swallowing hard. Gods. Aunt Mage and Aunt Charlotte, both harlots.
Beth had never stood a chance.
It couldn't be this easy.
Oh, in his fancies it had been, but Thomas hadn't ever held any real hope that it would be. This was the British army after all.
Even if it was a British army weakened and decimated by yellow fever.
Several days after striking out from Mr. Singleton's with the letters, they now stood in a small office that overlooked the prison camp, near to Cornwallis' head quarters at Winnsboro, with two real Redcoats standing at attention on either side of the door - their only way out - while General Johnson stepped outside to give the order that would have Thomas's father fetched from his prison. It could not be this easy.
This was the British army.
This was also the portion of the army that Cornwallis had left behind because a vast number of its soldiers were too sick to travel. Yes, this was the British army, but at least three quarters of them had the fever. Even the doctors were ill with it. As was General Johnson, who'd been dragged out of his bed to attend Watson's demands, which he believed came directly from O'Hara. He actually believed it.
Oh, he had taken some precautions. When Mark and Nicholas composed the letters, they did so O'Hara's copied cipher and his code. The Commanding Officer had sat at his desk and, using the same cipher, had decoded the letter Watson had handed him, the one Watson had felt best suited the situation, before rising again and stepping outside. Thomas had heard the man's voice, commanding someone beyond to have Martin fetched from his prison.
It could not be this easy. Sweat slid along Thomas's spine. Any moment now, they would do something to give themselves away. Or the Commanding Officer would suddenly, somehow, become aware that he was being duped.
"Stop squirming," Nicholas whispered. "Regimental soldiers don't squirm."
"It itches," Thomas complained, casting a look down at his red coat. Gods, he was a Redcoat. He looked the part and not only because of the stolen jacket. He'd shaved his face raw, he'd combed until his scalp felt scalped, but at least there was not a single knot in his dark brown hair. He was clean in a way he hadn't been in months. Not that all Redcoats were clean and kept, but he was supposed to be an officer, so yes. He looked the part quite well. As did Nathan. They looked wrong. Thomas tried not to scowl at the crimson surrounding him like a blood soaked burial shroud.
"It doesn't itch any more than the ratty old jacket you usually wear," Nicholas said reasonably.
"The colour itches," Thomas said. Nathan laughed softly.
It could not be this easy.
Except, it was. Perhaps the Commanding Officer was too sick with the fever to see through the ruse. Perhaps Farshaw had done an excellent job of forging O'Hara's hand writing and, coupled with the cipher, as all looked to be in order, the fever ravaged Officer had no reason to question it. As he was the Commander, his decision would be final. And if he didn't question the letter, then no one else was going to. He came back into the room, his face red and blotchy, his walk unsteady. He dropped into his seat with a groan, as if every muscle in his body caused him pain. He still held Farshaw's letter; the fake wax seal - which Farshaw had gone to so much effort to replicate - had been broken with barely a glance.
"I still think this is a poor trade," he said, voice weak. Thomas wondered if the fellow would die. Perhaps they hadn't roused him from his sick bed, so much as his death bed. He certainly looked like he was dying. His face was grey.
Grey. Like ash.
"How so, Sir?" Nicholas asked. It had already been agreed that he would do all of the talking.
"Tarleton for Martin," the General replied. "We let loose the hound to nip at our heels again, while we gain back the popinjay. A very poor deal."
That was what Nicholas had told the man. Earlier, after sizing up the army and learning as much news as they could, Nicholas had decided to choose the letter which stated that Martin was needed in a prisoner exchange. When the Officer asked who had been caught, Nicholas replied that it was Colonel Tarleton. Hearing that name, Thomas had felt a swell of good cheer, as if it was indeed true. If only his people had caught Tarleton. Oh, what fun they'd have, keeping him prisoner. Alas, it was not true. Of course it was not. But the Officer did not know this, news coming from the main army at a snails pace. For all he knew, Tarleton had been caught that very morning in some battle someplace, and O'Hara had moved swiftly to see the exchange made. For everyone knew how well Cornwallis prized his favourite pet. The Officer sniffed, and Thomas didn't think it had anything to do with mucus clogging his nose.
"Let the rebels keep Tarleton. It might be what he needs to bring him down a peg or two."
"Might be," Nicholas agreed. "But he is needed in the field."
"Eh. Tavington does as well, as does Simcoe. Between you and me, I think his Lordship puts far too much store on Tarleton. Oh well," he rose unsteadily. "O'Hara has commanded and who am I to disobey? The Lord General simply can not do without his favourite and therefore we must lose our prized prisoner. The man Tarleton himself captured…" the General smiled. "Poetic justice, perhaps? After all his strutting about, he goes and gets himself captured and the price for his freedom is the release of the very same man he crowed about capturing." He laughed, then coughed until his face turned purple.
"Perhaps you should return to bed, Sir?" Nicholas asked, feigning concern.
"Yes, that is precisely where I am heading. Where most of the damned army are right now. You are leaving immediately, are you?"
"O'Hara's command, Sir," Nicholas confirmed. "The rebels were very clear, Martin must be returned to them immediately if we are to gain Tarleton back."
"We should not be negotiating with them, they should not be allowed to set the terms at all," the Officer growled. "We aren't even supposed to be doing prisoner exchanges just now. Not after they hanged Major Andre up north." Thomas felt a flare of fear - was this what would reveal them? The blanket agreement that there would be no trading of prisoners? The General heaved a furious sigh. "But anything for Tarleton, aye? You should have seen what a fit Cornwallis was in, back when Tarleton was sick. When Cornwallis discovered that Tarleton was sitting pretty in some farmhouse with only a few Dragoons to protect him, he went into apoplexy. Tarleton was moved at once, lest his little favourite get captured by the enemy. Now he is captured," the General scoffed. "I'm not surprised Cornwallis would go to these lengths to get Tarleton back. Not surprised at all. Wait outside, Martin will be bought to you shortly."
"You have my gratitude, Sir," Nicholas said as he took the paper - the pass - that would see him riding from camp with the prisoner.
They turned and left the office, marching out of the house, stride purposeful. All three of them. Backs straight, heads tall, as if they had every right to be there and be doing what they were doing. They joined with Thomas's father's men, all of them wearing Redcoats, all of them waiting with an air of confidence. Thomas could taste their fear though, it was like a tangible thing that the real Redcoats did not notice. Nicholas asked in which direction would Martin be coming? He needed to be on his way, he said, therefore he would meet Martin rather than wait to have him bought to the house. Was he showing impatience? Would the Redcoats discern it? Thomas wanted to caution him against this, maybe they'd look too eager, too afraid. But the Redcoats took Nicholas' request in their stride as well. They looked bored, the Redcoats did; they looked sick, too. Thomas thought that as soon as his lot were on their way, these soldiers would be finding a nice quiet, warm place where they could wish they would die.
Mounted, they began to make their way through the bedraggled camp. Some soldiers were up and about, but most of them were laid out in their tents, with camp followers and other soldiers tending them. Burwell knew how weak the battalion at Winnsboro was, he could have a third of Cornwallis' ranks captured in one fell swoop, without losing a single man! Thomas imagined the Continentals and militia falling upon this place, slaying and capturing, pushing past the thin defences with the ease of a warm knife slicing through butter.
It wouldn't be much of a victory.
"I can't believe this," Nathan whispered and Thomas nodded, feeling exactly the same.
"Don't get too excited," Nicholas warned. "We still have to get out of here."
"No one is excited," Thomas said, feeling a bit peeved. How stupid did Nicholas think they were? "I'm waiting for the hammer to fall. I keep expecting it and it isn't coming but I know it has to. It can not be this easy."
"Stay cautious but don't get nervous," Nicholas advised. "Unless Tarleton or O'Hara come along, we should be well enough."
"That was luck, pure and simple," Thomas said. "What made you think of saying it was Tarleton? Who was captured, I mean. Was it a premonition? Providence? I'm not sure this would have worked, if you'd said any other name."
"I'd say Providence," Nicholas said grimly. "Let's pray our luck holds. If I'm recognised…"
It was a fear he'd expressed several times before. That former comrades would see him and denounce him for the traitor he was. But the army was massive, what were the odds that any of Nicholas former comrades were stationed here, overseeing the prison camp? Besides, if there was anyone from Nicholas' regiment there, they were likely dying in their tent, or busy tending to the hundred extra duties that each individual now needed to perform, the healthy picking up the workload of the sick. No one was looking at them. Not even out of curiosity. They rushed to their next task with barely a look at the small Redcoat detachment riding through their midst. Thomas started to feel like they might actually win free of this place. It was working. His father would soon be rescued, he would be well.
Only Benjamin Martin was not well. Thomas's heart clenched when he saw him. His father, who was always so tall and strong and vibrant was a mere shadow of what he'd been. There was more grey in his hair than there had been. His flesh hung loose on a too gaunt face. His body looked old, frail. He ambled. Where was his strong stride? Thomas felt like weeping. Benjamin's eyes were wide as he was bought forward, they had been from the moment he saw them. Surrounded by Redcoats himself, he remained silent and Thomas thanked the Lord Above that his father's wits hadn't been taken from him along with his good health.
The two groups came to a stop; Nicholas, Thomas and Nathan dismounted.
"So. Who am I to be -"
"The prisoner will not speak." Astonishing them all, Nicholas seized the front of Benjamin's filth covered jacket, then shoved him hard into Thomas and Nathan. "Get him mounted. If he speaks again, shove a cloth in his mouth." To Benjamin, Nicholas said, "you are to be exchanged, but that does not mean you have to be alive."
Thomas threw an accusing look at Nicholas, but his father shot Thomas a look, and Thomas knew he was to shut the hell up. Benjamin shrugged Thomas and Nathan off him, he looked at them and the others - his own men - then deliberately spat from deep in his throat. The great globule struck the ground with a damp slap. He was showing his contempt for the British, but Thomas felt it was more personal than that. Seeing his own sons wearing the Redcoat, his disgust was easy to summon.
"This way, rebel," Thomas gripped his father's arm and made a show of dragging him along to an empty saddle. He had to help Benjamin to mount and the need to sob suddenly flared again. Benjamin saw it, he gave Thomas a ghost of a smile and a slight shake of the head, and it was all the reassurance Thomas needed. The boys mounted and, with Benjamin between them, they followed Nicholas at a stately pace through the camp. Not too fast. Not so slow that they might be easily called back. Not a single one of them looked over their shoulders for signs of pursuit. They were men who had every right to be doing what they were doing.
A good half hour later and Thomas's nerves were frayed. He didn't think he could take much more of this. Thankfully, he did not have to. Nicholas was showing his pass for the last time to the last of the pickets and then they were free of the prison camp and riding like the hounds of hell had been set on their trail. Thomas looked to his father to see how he was faring, would the hard ride damage him further? Was Benjamin sick, did he have the fever all the soldiers had? Or was it deprivation that had him looked so weak and worn? There was no time to ask, no time to help. They needed to get as much distance between them and the British army as possible, they needed to get away from the dense camp and the local village, where there were no eyes to report their passage. They might have succeeded for now, but the British would realise their mistake sooner or later and the pursuit would begin. Thomas hoped for later. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or next year.
"Colonel. Martin, I am so desperately sorry," Nicholas said later when they stopped to rest the horses. Making an escape from the British camp and putting distance between them was all well and good, but horses could not run forever. Benjamin was ripping rabbit meat from the bone with a gusto that made Thomas proud, and well pleased that his father was not sick. Weak, yes. But he was not refusing food, therefore he did not have the fever.
"Iss a'right," he said around the morsel in his mouth before swallowing it down. He continued to speak even as he resumed his attack on the bone. "I knew what you were doing. Good choice, tossing me against these two," he gestured with greasy fingers at Thomas and Nathan. "Thought they were going to give me a big hug for a moment there."
"I was not," Thomas protested. Such a move would have given them away immediately. Nathan opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and looked guilty. Thomas gave him an incredulous look and Nathan blushed. It was no wonder Nicholas threw Benjamin into them, he must have seen that Nathan was about to embrace his father! Dear God above. Thomas shook his head at his brother's foolishness.
"You're lookin' worse for wear," Danvers said. "We got to get more food into you, get meat back on your bones."
"We got to get me up to Burwell, is what we've got to do," Benjamin said. "How far is he?"
"By now?" Thomas replied. "God knows. Won't be hard to find though, I'm sure." His force was large enough that following it would be easily done.
"What day is it? The date?"
"The 17th," Nathan replied after thinking about it for a bit. "I think. Yeh. January 17."
"Jesus. I lost track of the days… I've been out of this for far too long. Danvers, how are the horses?" Benjamin called, a sharpness to his voice. An impatience.
"Let's give them another few minutes there, Martin," Danvers replied. "We rode them pretty hard and we've got a ways to go yet."
"Always the voice of reason," Benjamin muttered. "Christ, if only you'd been able to get the others out. I could use Billings right about now. Still," he gripped both Nathan's shoulder and Thomas's, fingers squeezing with a strength Thomas rejoiced to feel. "You did well back there. My brave boys. Dear God above, you've both got some stones, walking into hell and getting your old da out like that. Come here," he jerked Thomas close first, hugged him hard, then did the same for Nathan. "My brave lads. And you," he seized Nicholas's hand and shook it. "You have my heart felt thanks, Lieutenant. You would have hung if they'd discovered you. You risked your life…"
"I didn't think it was too much of a risk, Sir," Nicholas said modestly. "We prepared well before we went in and yes, it was a risk, but I didn't think it was a high one. Besides, you're needed. Burwell needs you."
"Yeh. He does," Benjamin shot a look at Danvers, who was still fussing over the horses. At length they were deemed rested enough to ride and the journey commenced.
That night, they made camp in the woods and posted sentries. Thomas watched his father, noting how nervous he seemed. The last time he'd made camp with his men, Banastre Tarleton had fallen upon them from all directions, cutting off any chance of escape. Benjamin kept looking over his shoulder and peering into the dark, as if worried that they were about to be surrounded again. Thomas worried along with him. Did the Commanding Officer back at Winnsboro know the truth yet? Did he know he'd let his prisoner go, giving him over into the hands of rebels? Had he sent out a pursuit? Suddenly the few sentries they'd posted did not seem like enough.
"Come here, Tom," Benjamin called and Thomas obeyed, joining his father on the overturned trunk, sitting before the fire. Benjamin clasped Thomas's shoulder again. "We're only staying a few hours. Enough to get a little shut eye, then we'll be on our way. We'll keep moving, therefore we should be able to evade Cornwallis' patrols. All will be well."
You're reassuring me? Thomas thought, thinking how his father was the one who needed reassurance. "We'll be with Burwell in no time," he said and Benjamin nodded.
"Tell me, how is Mark coping?"
Talk had been sporadic on the ride and during rest stops, Thomas had managed to tell his father the most important news but often hadn't been able to go into detail. Thomas knew Mage's death had hit his father hard, not only for how unexpected it was, but for the manner of it. Dying in childbed, just as Thomas's mother had.
"I don't know, if the truth be told," Thomas replied heavily. He could not help but notice how tired Benjamin looked and he wished they were heading home to Fresh Water, instead of to Burwell and more fighting. Impossible of course, but he wished it. "He didn't speak with us any more than he had to. He didn't even dine with us. He closeted himself with Watson and Farshaw to draft up the various letters. I don't think he is coping well."
"There isn't much I can do for him…" Benjamin trailed off with a regretful sigh. "How are the girls and William?"
"Bigger," Thomas replied with a grin. "They've grown so much, all of them. Margaret is becoming quite the lady, her manners are as fine as Anne's." No twitting, not now. He doubted he'd ever twit Margaret's emergence into womanhood again. He was too grateful for how well she was turning out.
"And I'm missing it all," Benjamin lamented.
"You made your choice, father," Thomas said softly. Benjamin shot him a started look. "Well, you did. I'm not saying it was the wrong choice. But it has consequences, doesn't it? Stay home with your family and let the war pass you by, but if you do that you can't complain about how it turns out or who wins. Go and fight for what you believe in and your family grows on without you. You can't complain how they turn out either."
"You've grown," Benjamin said, studying Thomas intently. "No tomfoolery… Where is my boy, what have you done with him?"
"He's still here," Thomas grinned. "He's just damned tired."
"No. He's turning into a man," Benjamin complimented and Thomas felt himself glowing inside. "You're right, I can't complain - I wish I could be there for the younger ones… Luckily Margaret is turning out fine, as you said."
"Beth hasn't." Benjamin stiffened and Thomas worried he'd pushed to far. Ruined the good mood. Now was not the time for confrontations. "Susan asked me to give you this," he said, reaching inside his pocket and pulling out a strip of cloth. "She's been practicing her sewing under Anne's careful gaze. It's her first sampler."
Benjamin allowed the tense moment to pass, he took the cloth in hand and tilted it toward the light of the fire. It was a handkerchief and it had the names of all the Martin children, young and old, including Samuel. And Anne. "My family" was stitched in the centre.
"Beautiful," Benjamin said, his voice thick. He folded the handkerchief carefully and held it, Thomas worried for a moment he was about to witness his father weep.
"And I reckon William's almost ready to begin shaving," Thomas said it as a joke but he realised that he probably wasn't far wrong. William, the youngest boy in the family, was ten years old. "He's still a runt though," Thomas said, for William hadn't grown any. "Susan is almost at my shoulder, but William is not taller than he ever was."
"As tall as that, hmm?" Benjamin asked. He heaved a sigh and Thomas knew his father was still thinking of all he was missing. "Boys don't have their growth spurt until they're at least fourteen. You of all people should know that," Benjamin said.
"Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke? Good, I finally have my da back," Thomas said, grinning.
"That you do, thanks to you and Nathan," Benjamin said.
"And Watson. And Burwell. And all your men. We didn't do it alone," Thomas said, though he beamed at the praise.
"Now he is humble, too," Benjamin said. "I really would like to know what you've done with my Thomas."
They shared a grin.
"So. Your aunt. She's thinking of marrying this Singleton fellow, is she?"
Thomas studied his father carefully, while trying to pretend he wasn't. "He appears to want to, he was very attentive of her."
"And what of her? Head over heels, is she?"
"No. She appeared resigned, truth be told. If they do marry, it'll be for mutual benefit, not for love."
"Is she pregnant?" Benjamin asked.
"Uh… she doesn't appear to be. Do you think they're…"
"Who knows? I don't care if they are, but if she's pregnant, the child might be mine." Thomas shifted uncomfortably, his father might consider him to be a grown man now but that didn't mean he was at ease speaking of such things. Benjamin said,. "She can do what she likes. If she was pregnant, then I would have done the right thing and married her myself. She would be showing by now, if she is and it's again, who knows? If she was pregnant, it could just as easily be Bordon's. I'm glad she's not. If she was, I would have done the right thing by her and knowing my luck, wound up raising another man's bastard."
Just as Mark was. There was no way to know for certain, but Nicholas was fairly adamant that Mage's child was fathered by Bordon. Thomas noticed how angry his father had begun to look, since the moment Thomas mentioned the possibility of Mr. Singleton marrying aunt Charlotte. Or was it jealousy? Thomas wondered. His father hadn't spoken this poorly of Aunt Charlotte in months. Was he doing so now because she was entertaining Singleton's suit?
"I'm glad too," he found himself saying, rather than addressing the other. "Life is complicated enough."
"Damn it is that," Benjamin heaved a breath. "Have you any word of Beth? Is she still with that…" Benjamin's lips twisted as though the name clogged in his throat.
"I haven't heard anything, I assume she is still with him."
"Not for much bloody longer," Benjamin ground out. "If Tavington has left Fresh Water and is traipsing after Cornwallis, then he'll be getting Beth back himself. Hopefully he has already. He isn't going to suffer the humiliation of having his wife off screwing some other man, not when it is within his power to stop. I just wish we could do something about the fall out."
"Fall out?"
"It depends on how many people know where that girl has really been. If too many do, we might not be able to hide it, no matter how hard we try. Thank the Gods Gabriel is safely married to a woman of quality, but I don't hold out much hope of seeing the same for you and the other boys. Or a decent gentleman for the girls. No family of decency will want to touch us with a ten foot branch thanks to Beth."
Would the Ferguson's really withdraw their support for Thomas and Lucy? Thomas was quiet for so long that his father shifted his gaze and stared broodingly into the fire. No doubt Benjamin was having uncharitable thoughts of Beth, while Thomas mulled the question over; would her actions impact on his intention to marry Lucy? The Ferguson's had always liked the Martin's, but would they still, after Beth? And after Mage rogering Bordon. And Charlotte rogering Bordon.
And his father rogering Charlotte… Hell, even Benjamin himself had put their family at risk, having an affair with a widow but never getting to the point that he would marrying her.
"Let us hope the Ferguson's don't find out," Thomas said. Benjamin nodded sagely, as if he'd been thinking the same. Only Thomas knew his father was blaming Beth - all of it was being blamed on Beth. Thomas, annoyed at his father as much as with Beth, said, "about Beth and Tarleton. About Aunt Mage and Bordon. About Aunt Charlotte and Bordon and," he paused, holding his father's gaze with a fierce one of his own, "about you and Aunt Charlotte." Benjamin's jaw dropped, his mouth falling wide open. When he was a lad, Thomas had learned to fish. He caught his first catfish when he was barely five years old. The fish, plucked out of water, had gaped, mouth opening and closing as it gasped for air. Benjamin looked very much like that fish had. "You're right. No family of decency will want to touch us with a ten foot branch if the conduct of all of ours becomes known." Benjamin snapped his mouth shut. Quite satisfying, Thomas felt. As he did not want a prolonged argument over who had done what to who and whose actions were wrong and who had done the most damage to their family, he said, "I don't think you should tell Burwell we have the seal and cipher. Uncle Mark would have lured William into a trap in an attempt to murder him; and we've saved him from that. Even if he doesn't bloody know it. Anyway, Burwell might not intend to kill William but he does intend something. I reckon we should toss them both. The seal and cipher, I mean. Not Burwell and William. Throw them into the river, destroy them, so no one can use them for ill."
Benjamin's jaw was working. Thomas knew, because he could see the ball of his father's jaw moving beneath his skeletal flesh. He hadn't enjoyed Thomas' observation regarding his own bad conduct, it seemed. Honestly. How could any of them have thought Beth could have stood a chance? Even Thomas himself was guilty of poor conduct, and Beth knew it. He hadn't taken Lucy's virginity, but they'd done things together they aught not to have done until they were married. It definitely was the conduct of all of them, not just Beth. Thomas bit back the complaint, he saw the conflict pass across his father's face, and then it was gone. Benjamin decided to let it drop, just as Thomas had.
"I can't do that son," he said and he did sound apologetic. "It's too important a tool to pass away that easily. There are a hundred ways it can be used, to create havoc within any of the British detachments. With the cipher and seal, we could send the British anywhere he wish, away from our own forces for instance. Or we can gain information we wouldn't otherwise be granted. Mark's sole purpose was to kill William and Bordon. General Burwell is not so unimaginative, he will have a much wider use for the seal and cipher."
Thomas nodded slowly. William was just one among thousands; Burwell would use the seal and cipher to target when and where he could, William was in no more danger than the rest of the British Officers and those under their command. Burwell's plans would work, but they likely wouldn't lead to William's death. He would use them to further the Patriot cause and as that was dear to Thomas' own heart, he finally relented and agreed with his father, the seal and cipher were too useful to their own Cause to cast aside now.