Chapter 159 - James' Discontent:
Sitting in the saddle at the front of the column, James glanced back over his shoulder toward the great house, where several Dragoons were positioned in a threatening manner, protecting the retreat of Tavington's caravan and preventing those from within the from coming out to attack. It was a stalemate that would allow for the Dragoons and wounded to flee the plantation.
Notwithstanding, their withdrawal could hardly be described as fleeing, they were not moving swiftly enough for it to be called fleeing. More like crawling. At a snails pace. James pulled in a deep breath and blew it out explosively. Marcus, riding at his side, met his eyes and grimaced. He was feeling it too, the same frustration that was broiling in James' stomach.
"We should have at least been able to try," James muttered and Marcus nodded, knowing precisely what James was speaking about. His suggestion that they set the house alight - the suggestion that was shouted down by Beth Tavington, as if she had any right to so much as speak when it came to Dragoon matters. And Tavington had just… let her. He'd let his wife contradict James, right there in front of everyone. Damn them both. "We might not have had to go through with it," he spat. "The threat of it would have been all that was needed. Come at the house with the torches, pretend we'll throw them through the windows. They might have abandoned the house quickly enough then - they would not have wanted to stay near their powder kegs if they'd thought we'd actually do it."
"Our reputation is such that they would have thought we'd do it," Marcus agreed. "And that alone would have had them scarpering."
"Reputation," James scoffed. "We had one, once. Formidable. Determined. Strong. Fierce. The Green Dragoons. That's what we were. And Tavington was those things, once. Yet now, we flee. Because of his soft wife worrying about her family inside the house, when her family should not be any of our concern. Her family should be her father's concern. Her brothers concern. It's the rebels who should be worried about protecting their own women, who - I'll add - they choose to put at risk when they go off defying the Crown. Tavington is not here to be their bloody nursemaid."
"To be fair, the Green Dragoons have already been decimated. He is worried that we'll lose more Dragoons if we tried taking the house," Marcus said and James shot him a glare.
"I know Tavington's concerns," James retorted. "And I know that those rebels hiding inside the house are sharpshooters. Hell, even I admit that we'd lose a few men in the taking of it. But it would only take one of us. One soldier, getting close enough to toss a torch through an open window, and you watch everyone within come running out like ants from a kicked nest. One soldier, Marcus. That is what we are, is it not? Soldiers? When has he ever hesitated to throw us into battle before, even knowing many of us will perish? It's our duty, it is our honour. Don't you see? He attacks our very honour with this soft, 'look after the women otherwise I don't get my wife's quim' approach."
Marcus chortled with laughter, nodding agreement all the while. James remained brooding, a dark storm.
"Can you imagine Emily getting away with speaking to one of Tavington's Captain's, the way Beth spoke to me earlier?" He asked, voice hard. The question was rhetorical, he did not expect an answer. "All of that back there, him letting her go at me in front of everyone, him going against my suggestion - a suggestion that would have had us taking the house - all of that was to put me in my place. To remind me who is in command. He is probably thinking himself that we should be taking the house instead of leaving, but he's not going to back down from his decision, not when the suggestion to fire the house came from me."
"I don't know…" Marcus said. "He let you know that already that he is back in command - he came straight out and said so. I don't think he'd leave a nest of rebels untouched if he thought he could take it."
"Are you joking? There is no doubt that we could take back the house. It's the cost he's worried about and no, I don't mean the cost to our own men. Have you forgotten who is in there? His father in law, Marcus. He isn't thinking about the danger the sharp shooters present the Dragoons, he is protecting the women inside. He is protecting his father in law."
"Well then… if that's the case, he's guilty of treason, isn't he?" Marcus asked carefully.
"Depends on how you view it, doesn't it?" James asked, making it clear how he was choosing to view Tavington's decision making. "I'll be taking the matter up with Lord Cornwallis, you can count on that. Let him decide if he considers it treason, us retreating instead of attacking a nest of rebels that is protecting their Colonel, who also happens to be Cornwallis' escaped prisoner." The column had moved a few rods by now; at the rate they were travelling they would still be on the plantation for some hours yet. If the rebel reinforcement did arrive first (which was the reason they were leaving, after all), how many Dragoons would die before Tarleton and Simcoe arrived to relieve them? "We didn't just come to rescue Tavington and Bordon, we came to recapture Martin," James said, continuing his tirade, not even caring when he began repeating himself. "And he is in there - in bad bloody shape, too - and we're just leaving him when he's easy pickings? And all those rebels. Because Beth is afraid for her damned family. Damn and blast it. They should have thought of that when they chose to turn traitor. Why can't anyone see that? And bloody Tavington. He baulks at doing what needs to be done? Does he wear the breeches in his family or does his bloody wife? He should be putting his foot down - he's a damned Britisher Officer! It shouldn't even be a question! I know it's risky - throwing firebrands through the windows. The house could go up in moments, it would be a slaughter. But that's their risk, not ours. The rebels must know the danger of putting fire with powder - if we came at the house with firebrands, just the threat of it would have the damned traitors pouring from the house. We could be picking them off one by one but no, Tavington says we have to flee? And then he slows us down by insisting we bring all the wounded, chiefly because he's one of the wounded and is refusing to be left behind. He can't have it both ways!"
"I know, I know," Marcus said in a placating but 'I've heard this several times now' sort of way. James blew out another explosive breath.
"What's the wager the Dragoons we're leaving to protect our retreat and keep the rebels pinned will be overwhelmed by the rebels as soon as we're too far away to protect them?" James asked now, changing his rhetoric for the first time since they set out. "We've left seven men, while there's a good thirty inside. They'll be overwhelmed in moments if they can't ride away quickly enough. And when there are no more Dragoons here, the rebels will be free to remove Martin from here to somewhere safe, somewhere unknown to us, before we can return with Tarleton. We should bloody be staying!"
"I'm sorry that Tavington's decision isn't sitting well with you, James," Marcus commiserated. "It's not sitting well with me, either."
"It's definitely not sitting well with me. Did you hear him? 'I'm the highest ranking Officer here, it's not even a question.' " James spluttered indignantly, the embarrassment and shame stinging keenly. "I know I've already said it, but I swear on my honour, Marcus, he went against my idea simply to reassert his authority, not because he believed I was wrong. He wanted to remind everyone here that he's the big man. When really, he's just proving that it's his wife that's deciding everything for the Green Dragoons. What's bloody left of us, anyway," he snorted angrily. "After this debacle, I'm going back to Whymess' command. Stuff Tavington." James hauled in a deep breath as he struggled to keep his temper under control. "Whymess wouldn't bloody be leaving right now."
"No, he definitely would not," Marcus agreed wholeheartedly.
"He wouldn't hesitate to throw torches at the damned house, either. He wouldn't worry about the risk to the women and children - because it's not our risk! It's the damned rebels risk! And if they choose to take that risk, why should we protect them? I mean, that's how you get your enemy to surrender! By backing them into a corner and forcing their hand!"
"Yes, that certainly gets up my goat as well," Marcus said, glancing toward the carriage where that was moving along so, so slowly. "She's got Tavington by the balls, that's for certain. I don't know if he's grown soft or just lost his focus. Likely both," he shook his head while James nodded his, agreeing completely. "I wouldn't want harm to come to the women and children inside," Marcus continued. "But I do see your point - that's for the rebels to worry about and if they are worried for their women, they'd come out quick enough if we threatened them with torches. Tavington is right too though, whoever we chose to throw the torches would be killed before they got close…"
"And those seven Dragoons we're leaving to protect our retreat? They could be overwhelmed and killed if they don't ride away quickly enough. That's our risk to take and as far as I'm concerned, it'd be worth it," James snapped. "What did I just say to you? We're soldiers, are we not? This is war, is it not? It's the honour of a soldier to give his life for his country. Tavington has commanded men into battle often enough - knowing full well that some might die. What's the difference here? Beth is the bloody difference," James spat before Marcus could answer. "She has made her husband soft, he has lost his focus, and as he's sworn off all other women, he's probably afraid he won't get any satisfaction if he refuses her anything! He's controlled entirely by her quim!"
Marcus began spluttering with laughter again, shocked by James assertion even while agreeing with it.
"And so we flee," James announced. "As slowly as goddamned possible."
"The Colonel has given his command," a new voice intruded. James whirled in the saddle, glancing back at Arthur and Michael, who he hadn't even heard approaching. It was Arthur who'd spoken - his face was hard, disapproving and set in stone. "We have our orders," Arthur said tersely. "Carping on about it isn't going to change anything."
James glared at his brother in law; there were a hundred withering comments on the tip of his tongue but he chose silence. He wasn't certain how far he trusted Arthur anymore. Gone were the days when Arthur would follow James around and look up to him as if he could do no wrong. Now, Arthur was just as likely to run to Tavington and repeat James' complaints, and James would be faced with disciplinary action from the Colonel. He was not frightened of Tavington, but he had no desire to be set down by the Colonel any more than he already had been.
Instead, he seethed quietly and kept his eyes averted from Arthur as they rode along. He heard Marcus, who was riding to the right of him, whispering to Michael that they were thinking of returning to Whymess' command, and was quite satisfied when he saw Michael nod firm agreement. Arthur, on James' left side, heard none of this, he was not included in the discussion, which meant even Michael and Marcus understood that Arthur was no longer in unity with them.
The column continued to move with a sense of urgency that was utterly in discord with their slow pace. Tavington's fault, James fumed to himself. He should have left the wounded behind but that would have meant staying back himself. Damned, selfish son of a -
"Rebels!" A forward scout screamed from the woods. The sudden pain filled scream that followed was cut off by a sharp clap - gunfire.
"To arms!" Captain Wilkins shouted and barely a moment later, an overwhelming number of rebels exploded from the trees ahead and thundered toward them. Amid the sound of hooves, men shouting orders, ramrods shoved down muskets, the men fell back to the carriage and wagons to form up as best they could around the wounded. Even before the rebels reached them, James knew this effort would not be enough. It was impossible to count numbers when men were galloping and running toward him, but he knew there was over one thousand. So many against so few; even in his wildest dreams, James had not expected this. With a glance over his shoulder, he saw rebels spilling from the great house to join their newly arrived companions. Damn and blast it all to hell. "Fire!" James screamed when the rebels were within range. Claps and smoke filled the air. Several rebels fell but the rebels barely broke stride. Ramrods scraped barrels as the Dragoons furiously reloaded, the acrid smell and smoke filling their nostrils and stinging their eyes. The rebels returned fire and suddenly James was staring up at the sky, wondering what the hell he was doing on the ground. It was so silent, not a sound on the air or in the wind. But then it all came rushing in again; a sudden, defending roar, of shots firing, shouting and screaming. His own screaming as he became aware of the pain. He shut his mouth, attempted to hold the bellows in. Unable to do more, he glanced to his right, saw Marcus Middleton's eyes staring up at the sky. They were glassy, those eyes, utterly lifeless. James found he could move after all. He hurled onto his side, stifled his agonised bellows, and began shaking Marcus. He shook again, but no amount of it would rouse the Ensign. James collapsed to his stomach in the mud, weeping with horror.
Someone grabbed him and he twisted violently, tried to lash out with his musket.
"None of that now, Tory," came an awful voice. "And I'll be taking that. You've surrendered, Redcoat. This will be stacked along with the rest." Another rebel pulled the musket from his hand.
"Surrendered?" Wilkins whispered, shaking his head, unable to believe those words. The battle had only just begun! Hadn't it? How long had he been lying in the mud? Long enough for Marcus to be killed. Surrendered… It was ludicrous, he did not believe it. Not until he looked back at the carriage and saw Colonel Tavington, leaning on his crutches and his wife, speaking with Captain Rollins, who James knew to be one of Benjamin Martin's loyal little lapdogs.
Surrendered.
Colonel William Tavington of the British Legion and the Green Dragoons had damned well surrendered. James, feeling thwarted and furious, took two full steps toward the Colonel, ready to give the bastard the beating of his life, discipline be damned. Two full steps before his vision closed and the ground again rushed up to meet his face.
"I suggest, for your sake, that you keep this peaceful, Colonel Tavington," Captain Rollins was saying. "I will not tolerate any more resistance from you that may result in more wounding or killing of my men. Take this warning to heart. We did not mean for you to be captured when you first came here, but even Martin's patience with you has an end. Son in law or not, you will be treated harshly if you break quarter, if Colonel Martin grants it to you."
"Harshly!" Beth folded her arms over her chest. "Now see here, Captain -"
"There will be no attempt to fight or flee," William interrupted his wife, who he could see was about to let loose her anger. "I can ill afford to lose any more men either."
"You will treat my husband harshly, will you Mr. Rollins?" Beth spat, refusing to be silenced. "He has already been shot twice. What more can you do to him?"
"I believe the 'you' was meant in the plural, wife," Tavington said before Rollins could frame his reply. "If your father's patience is indeed at an end, then there is plenty more that he can do to us - or rather, to my men," William said with warning in his voice. Beth wore that muley expression that he knew only too well, but at least she said nothing further. For now.
Thomas came running from the house and the three turned to watch him approach.
"Colonel Martin accepts your surrender," he said to Tavington, before turning to Rollins. "Colonel Martin has commanded that the wounded Dragoons be returned to their previous quarters. He has commanded that there be four score of guards to watch over them. The unwounded enemy are to be placed under guard elsewhere, to await transport to Rutledge across the border," he said to Rollins. "When you and your men are well enough, you will also be sent to Rutledge," Thomas said to William.
"What?" Beth gasped, anger puffing away on her now deflated sails. She turned frantically toward William and back again. "Papa can't send him away!"
"He can and he will," Thomas lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, as if readying himself for the fight with his sister. "Beth, he's already tried to escape once before -"
"He was never meant to be captured!" Beth said, frustrated by the same tired argument. "And as we discussed afterward, that plan was dead in the water!"
"The intention was there, that's what matters!" Thomas snapped. "We lost men in that attempt and now Wilkins has fallen on us like he thinks he's some hero out of Homer and we've lost eleven more!"
"William lost fifty when uncle Mark attacked and if you think he didn't suffer losses when James arrived earlier today, you're sorely mistaken! And more just now when he," she pointed at Captain Rollins. "Stopped us from leaving! I assure you, William has suffered losses greater than father and none of this was his doing!"
"You're not listening!" Thomas shouted. "It doesn't matter who was at fault then and now or any of it! Colonel Martin has a bloody job to do and he's going to do it! The prisoners will be sent to Rutledge, including Colonel Tavington!" He turned on his heel and strode away.
"I take it your father isn't very well pleased," William said in a neutral voice. Beth turned back to him, looking desperately worried.
"I'll… I'll talk to him -"
"No, Beth, you will not," William said, placing his arm around her shoulders. "This is not a family matter and I will not hide behind you." He looked to Rollins. "I wish to inspect my men and determine who has been wounded and who fell in this latest skirmish. Will you allow me that freedom?"
"After I've followed Martin's command of returning you to the medical compound," Rollins glanced over at the unarmed Dragoons, all of them on their knees with Rollins own men standing over them, firearms at the ready. He gestured, and when one of his men came over, he requested the return of Elisha Miller. Mr. Miller was released from the group for the purpose of driving the carriage, for William was in no condition to walk that far, even supported by crutches.
Captain Rollins passed on the order to have the Dragoon wounded, those on the cart and those who required attention from this most recent skirmish, taken to the medical impoundment. Those newly wounded were carried by their shoulders and feet.
After a short drive, Beth and William arrived to find Thomas waiting for them. Thomas - still quite angry - met them at the carriage.
"You started out with ten wounded," Thomas said without preamble. "And I was able to cobble together just enough shelter to keep them out of the weather. You have far more than that now though, so where shelter is concerned, you're now shit out of luck. I hope your attempt at escape was worth it, Colonel Tavington."
"Don't talk to him like that, Tommy," Beth rounded on her brother. "Why are you so angry about this? William wasn't meant to be taken in the first place. He should never have been kept here."
"I believe your brother's feelings have been hurt," William said. "I really don't believe soldiering was the right vocation for you, Thomas."
"Why? Because I don't like to see all this suffering?" Thomas asked, waving his hands toward the wounded. "And the death? Do you enjoy seeing it?"
"Of course not," William replied. "But a soldier has a duty. He aims, he fires and whether or not his opponent lives or dies is for God to decide. I came here peacefully, if you recall."
"I recall precisely the reason you came here," Thomas snapped with a pointed look at Beth, who tightened her lips at this indelicate reminder of her almost failed marriage.
"Then you'll remember that I was to leave here without bloodshed," Tavington replied, refusing to be diverted. "Your uncle put paid to that. He fired first. Then James Wilkins came, and more were injured or killed on both sides. And then we tried to escape and Captain Rollins came, and more were injured and killed again. War is unpredictable. Nothing can happen for weeks and then all at once, men die in their droves. You never know which way the tide will turn. Does that mean I should not have acted when I had the opportunity? A true soldier would know the answer to that."
Thomas glared at William. "I do know the answer, and it's yes, of course you should have. As for the rest, well, I'm told that Uncle Mark is dead now, so what of it? He isn't going to hurt you or yours any more. I can see what you're thinking," Thomas took a full step forward and William was surprised that the lad was tall enough to meet his gaze levelly, with no need to crane his neck. He had to resist the urge of taking a step backward in retreat. Thomas was a boy no longer.
"What am I thinking?" William asked, refusing to be daunted - though in truth, trepidation was sliding its way up his spine. Not because Thomas was challenging him, he could deal with that. It was the determination in Thomas' eyes that threw him, Thomas knew something that William did not.
"Uncle Mark attacked you. Took you captive. Then Wilkins attacked us, freeing you. Then Captain Rollins came, attacked you, and took you prisoner again. But you're standing here like it's nothing. You're not even worried that you'll soon be sent to prison camp under Rutledge. Because you don't think you're ever going to end up there. You don't think this hasn't ended. You think that the men Wilkins tried to send to Tarleton and to Simcoe have gotten past us."
William drew in a slow breath, dread curling in his stomach. How had Thomas known about those men? Unless…
"You think you've got one more card to play," Thomas said softly. "That Tarleton and Simcoe will come and there will be one final skirmish, that will free you for once and for all. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"
William tightened his lips, refusing to admit it. If Thomas knew about the messengers James had sent, then clearly, they had been caught. There would be no final rescue.
"Well, you might as well forget it," Thomas continued, though there was truly no need for it, Tavington already understood quite well enough. The lad, however, would not shut up. "Tarleton and Simcoe are not coming to save you. The messengers Captain Wilkins sent out have all been intercepted; Tarleton, Simcoe, they are not coming for you. They never were going to come for you."
William worked his jaw, grinding his teeth as frustration and fury set in. As much as he had come to despise Tarleton, he had been counting on his and Simcoe's reinforcements to see the Dragoons safely returned to the battalion, even with this latest defeat at Captain Rollins' hands. But now, having learned that the messengers had been intercepted, he realised this escape attempt had never stood a chance. Dead in the water, just like his previous plan. Even up until this very moment, he'd been harbouring the hope that rescue was still possible. Thomas' declaration dashed that.
"Well. Thank you for this chat, it was most enjoyable. If you will excuse me? I have my wounded to see to," William said, using his crutches to begin his first steps away from Thomas.
"That will take you some hours, considering how many fell today," Thomas said, lifting his voice. "A word of advice? You might want to start at the medical tent. That's where Brownlow is."
"What?" William gasped, turning back to Thomas.
"Yeh, thought you didn't know. Or maybe you just didn't care. We've spoken of those men that fell when Wilkins first arrived? You had Jutland stay back to triage them, while you fled with those well enough to travel. You didn't bother staying long enough to see who was being left behind though, did you?"
"There was no time! Stop being a petulant little bastard and tell me what happened to Brownlow, Tom!" William shouted, his patience snapped. Thomas blinked in surprise, then his anger began to ease.
"He got into an altercation with a few of our men; with no time for any of them to reload, they were using their rifles as bludgeons. One of our men had a knife, as well. Brownlow fought against them, but he was beaten pretty badly and it ended when he was sliced open with the knife and smacked over the head with a rifle butt."
"Damn and blast it," William began a rolling, running walk aided by the crutches, he moved as swiftly as he could, with Beth fussing at his side that he was going to slip and fall in the mud. He almost did, too, but Beth steadied him and he continued on as swiftly as his broken body would allow. They reached the tent and William was struck with the same image as earlier - Harmony and Cilla at Richard's bedside; though now, each was holding a baby in their arms. Miss Cordell was there, moving among the wounded that Jutland had earlier declared unfit for travel. And Margaret Martin was sitting beside a prone Brownlow, running a wet cloth over his face. William didn't even question her presence there, he shoved the crutches under one arm and leaned on them as he stood over Brownlow. "How is he?"
Margaret lifted the blanket covering Brownlow to reveal a plaster that had been spread in a diagonal down the front of Brownlow's chest. "It's deep here," she said, pointing toward Patrick's stomach just below the ribs. "And he was hit in the head with a rifle -"
"Thomas told me," William said.
"I'm told he fell with the blow and hasn't woken since," Margaret said, voice breathless with fear. Beth came around the side of the bed to gaze down worriedly at Patrick. "His face was covered in dirt," Margaret said as if to explain the wet cloth in her hand. She gave herself a shake then answered William's question. "Jutland did what he could for him but he says it's up to God, now."
"I've been hearing that far too often of late," William said, looking over at Richard. To Brownlow, he said softly, "not a spartan after all, hmm? Jesus. He never gets hit. In all the battles we've been in; he's always been the lucky one. But…"
"His luck ran out. I'm sorry, William," Beth said, rubbing his arm.
"Don't say that!" Margaret gasped. "About his luck. As if he's already dead!"
Beth studied her sister closely and finally saw Margaret's fear, and that the girl's cheeks were red, as if she'd been crying. She exchanged a look with William, who shook his head with futility.
"Well he has someone to care for him, which is more than most of the others will have." Beth said to Margaret, "with you here, maybe that will make the difference. All will be well, he is in good hands."
"Yes," Margaret agreed, seizing on the little hope Beth had offered. "All will be well."
"Gods, I'm going to have my hands full," Beth said, her gaze now fixed beyond the tent at the wounded being bought in. She removed her broad-rimmed hat in one swoop, reached into her pocket and pulled out a mob camp. Putting it on, she said to William, "I need a find a place for you to lay down while your tent is being set up again, then I need to help with the wounded." She was already turning away before William could reach for her.
"I don't need to lay down, Beth," he said, dropping the hand that tried to grab her before she danced out of the way.
"The hell you don't," she muttered as she strode from the tent.
He shook his head, letting her go. She could rail at him all she liked but there was no way in hell he was going to let her put him to bed like a recalcitrant child. The pain in his body screamed in agreement with Beth, he'd been on his wounded leg for far too long. Ignoring it, he checked on Richard - whose condition had not changed in the slightest - before limping outside on his crutches.
There, he found that the wounded were being lined up on the ground in the cold. Jutland and Jones were already at work, their arms covered in blood to the shoulders and all the way down their fronts. With little else to do, William obstinately began making his way through his fallen men and those assisting them, giving suggestions to the rebels for the care of his wounded, when he felt it was required.
And they were only suggestions. The rebels heeded him only because Colonel Benjamin Martin allowed it. Tavington was still a Colonel but he had no jurisdiction here. No authority. He was again nothing more than another enemy prisoner.
The futility of his situation was overwhelming, his brief moment of freedom and command were snuffed before either could begin. He was back to being a captive yet again, only this time, hope was extinguished as well, and in its place was the absolute certainty that there was no rescue coming for him.