Chapter 1 - On the Outskirts:
Moncks Corner: April 14, 1780
"Ban!" Major George Hanger shouted, drawing the young Lieutenant Colonel's attention. Hanger had his sabre raised high and sliced it down in a swift arc. He severed a Bluecoat arm off at the elbow and the wounded Continental screamed with agony and shock. There were more Continental's darting in behind the first and Hanger was already hard pressed to keep them back.
"To Hanger!" Colonel Tarleton screamed and lunged his horse toward the Major, his sabre flashed in the moon light as he swung it down indiscriminately. The fight was over in moments, Hangers life was saved. Not so for the Continentals who had dared to defy them. Some lay groaning on the ground but most of them were perfectly still, their eyes unseeing.
Panting to catch his breath, Banastre whirled his horse around to search for more opposition but there was none - the enemy force at Moncks Corner had been subdued, Banastre's night time raid on the small force was a complete success.
Which meant the rebels in Charlestown would have no choice but to surrender the city. A great huzzah was shouted throughout Tarleton's detachment, their victory was secure. Tarleton let his men have their little celebration, he was basking in the glow of it himself. At length, he got the Dragoons under control. Moncks Corner had been taken and most of the rebels there were subdued, yet Tarleton's victory was bittersweet when his men reported that the senior Officers, one enemy General and two Colonels had fled into the swamps.
How wonderful would it have been, if he'd been able to capture another General? He'd done so two years previously, the capture of General Charles Lee had led to Banastre's meteoric climb through the ranks, from Cornet to Lieutenant Colonel in only two years.
At the very least, even without the capture of enemy Generals and Colonels, thanks to Banastre Tarleton, the way to the city would soon be open.
The Forks of The Wando River: May 7, 1780
7th May, 1780
Sir,
As you are no doubt aware, your position is compromised; you are surrounded, you are running out of shot and powder, you will not be able to fight much longer. To prevent further bloodshed I am prepared to make the following offers, the like of which shall not be repeated. If you stand and fight, you will be faced with my full force in an unrelenting barrage that will see you destroyed.
Sullivan's Island has surrendered, it will only be a matter of time before the rest of the city does likewise. If you continue to fight now, your men will die for nothing. I warn you strongly against further impedance. I offer you the following conditions, the meeting of which will prevent your certain demise.
1st. All of your Officers are to be prisoners of war but they will be offered parole. If they try to flee they will suffer harsh and certain punishment.
2nd. All other Continentals are to proceed to Chapin. Rest assured, they will be provided with the same provisions of our British troops until they are exchanged.
3rd. All of your militiamen are to be paroled to their homesteads.
4th. All arms, artillery, ammunition, stores, provisions, wagons, horses, etc, to be faithfully delivered.
5th. All your Officers will be allowed their private baggage and horses and their side arms will be returned.
I expect an an answer to my generous proposals as soon as possible. If you are rash enough to reject them, the blood be on your head.
I have the honor to be
Will. Tavington
Colonel, Commandant of the British Legion.
Burwell tightened his fist, crushing the letter in his fingers. "Wants to catch himself a Colonel, this one," he muttered. He gazed at his Officers, searching for their resolve and was met with stares of determination.
"Tavington," Corporal Gabriel Martin curled his lip. "He is the one we saw fighting Rogers' unit across the river."
Burwell nodded. It'd been a grisly sight, one Burwell's Company had been powerless to help. Because of earlier rains, the river had been too high, making it impossible to cross. They stood sentry instead, they bore witness as the British force exploded into Rogers' Patriot militia, sabre's swinging, cannons roaring, shot blasting all around them. It was over in moments and at the end, when the smoke cleared, only the British were left standing. Burwell recalled seeing the British turn from the men they'd just killed, they'd approached the river and stared back across Burwell and his small force. The British had been as powerless to cross as Burwell, but he'd seen it in their Commanders face, that the fellow would come for him.
And now he had the Commanders name. Colonel William Tavington.
Burwell had fallen back from the river to take up a defence stance, protecting the many water byways from British invasion. In that time, the fort at Sullivan's Island had surrendered. The surrender had had a profound effect on his men, for many of them had served at Sullivan's Island five years earlier, during which time they had repelled the British fleet. Now, however, it had fallen. He met worried glances, could see what that surrender had done to their souls.
How long before Charlestown fell? Burwell squatted, meeting each Officers gaze in turn. Tavington, who had butchered Rogers men not two days earlier, had surrounded Burwell and after a short but nasty skirmish, had offered him terms.
"Your judgement?" He asked the men.
"No surrender," Lieutenant Gabriel Martin murmured.
"You saw what they did to Rogers' men, we can only die here," Major Bryant said. "With Sullivan's Island fallen, how long before Charlestown surrenders? I'll wager they're in talks this very moment. If we hold here, we die. And for what?"
Burwell nodded. Bryant, who was no coward, was recommending surrender. Burwell continued around the group, his council, receiving differing replies. The decision was his, and he pondered their judgement before making it. At length, he spoke.
"Charlestown has not fallen yet," he slapped Bryant on the back as he rose. "But it will if each Company holding the lines chooses to stop fighting because of Sullivan's Island. No surrender. Have your men take up their positions."
As they did, Burwell sent his reply to the British Officer, Colonel Tavington, who was positioned so close they could see the enemies campfires.
Sir, I reject your proposals, and shall defend myself to the last extremity.
I have the honor to be, etc.
Harry Burwell, Colonel
"So be it," Tavington screwed the missive up in a tight fist and threw it to the ground. He turned his horse and called for his adjutant, Captain Richard Bordon. "Call the advance," he commanded coldly.
The Cavalry and infantry of the British Legion began to move forward toward the Continental lines, pulling their canons into position. Shortly later, the battle commenced.
Tavington strode through the lines of wounded. The stench of blood and shit hit him like a blow. The battle had been fierce, shocking, even to the hardened Colonel. It had lasted only fifteen minutes and by then, they had wrought so much damage, dealt out so much death - it had been a massacre, pure and simple. Grumbling had already begun from the Continental Officers he had caught, accusing them of slaughter.
Damned fools. This was war. He'd given them the option of surrendering, they had refused. Burwell had fled readily enough, he noted with a look of distaste. So much for fighting to the last extremity, Burwell and many of his Senior Officers had escaped into the swamps! After committing to the battle, and promising to fight to his last breath, Burwell ended up abandoning his men to their fate. Yet here they were, accusing Tavington of butchery.
It was not a reputation Commander and Chief Sir Henry Clinton wanted for the British, and to halt the progress of such talk, Tavington declared his intention to have the Continental wounded shown as much care as his own British. That quieted some of the grumbling, but not all.
"Brownlow," he called to his Cornet, who wound his way through the Continental wounded on the ground and approached quickly.
"Sir!"
"Where is Doctor Jones? I sent for him ten minutes ago!" Tavington snapped crisply. "I want these damned Continentals tended to before any more die on me!"
"Sir, he will not come," Brownlow replied. Tavington stiffened and the Cornet waited for the explosion.
"I beg your pardon?" Tavington asked dangerously. He was in a foul mood, he always was after battle. From the corner of his eye, he could see Captain Bordon approaching.
"He said he was there to tend the British, not a bunch of rebels," Brownlow said.
"Did he now?" Tavington tightened his lips, he met Captain Bordon's eyes. He nodded curtly to both Officers, then turned on his heel, marching toward the newly erected medical tents. Brownlow and Bordon followed smartly, catching up to the raging Colonel quickly. Tavington ducked into the tent.
He stopped dead to take stock, his gaze searching for Doctor Jones through the throng of corpsmen. Tavington was not lacking in medical staff. He had at least ten fully qualified doctors and another forty corpsmen, medics who fought as soldiers then cared for the wounded afterward. Ordinarily, if a troop was short of medical staff after battle, their own wounded were always tended first. But that was not the case now - in the tent at that very moment was a total of three British wounded.
There was absolutely no need for ten doctors and forty corpsmen to care for only twelve wounded. Jones had disobeyed a direct order from his superior, Colonel Tavington.
And that was something Tavington would not - could not - allow to slide.
He slowly and pulled his leather, fur crested helmet from his head and strode deeper into the tent. His cold gaze fixed on doctor Jones. The doctor's sleeves were barely even covered with blood, they had so few wounded. A few corpsmen were tending the wounded but the others were idle. He heard footfalls behind him and did not need to look to know that Bordon and Brownlow had followed.
"Doctor," Tavington drawled quietly when he reached the man. His calm tone belied his rage. "I have requested your assistance with the Continental captives. Why are you and your surgeons still here?"
"I will not waste my time tending dead men," the doctor snapped unwisely. "The rebel wounded will be carted off to Chapin, they can die of their wounds on their way, for all I care."
"I do not require you to care, Sir. I require you to obey. You will see to them now," Tavington said finally, dangerously.
"I will not waste our much needed supplies on rebels!" Jones cried, finally turning to face Tavington in outrage.
"Brownlow, be ready to seize Doctor Jones on my command," Tavington commanded, his patience snapped. "Tell me, Doctor. Will fifty lashes help to recall to you the chain of command?" He asked as Brownlow took up position beside the doctor.
The doctor's face drained of colour. The other occupants of the tent stared with shock, their patients forgotten. Tavington's question was delivered coldly, with deadly intent. Doctor Jones would indeed be whipped and knew it. William glared unblinking at the Doctor, the command to have him whipped ready on his lips if Jones did not answer to Tavington's satisfaction.
"No, Sir, I need no such reminder," Jones said, finally finding his voice. "I shall go and tend them at once."
"Wise decision," Tavington ground out. He took a single, threatening step closer to impart some much needful advice. "I will not tolerate insubordination."
"No, Sir! There will be no repetition." Jones stammered fearfully. He fled from the tent as quickly as his long legs could carry him.
The remaining doctors and corpsmen exchanged eloquent glances before returning to their work. The tent became a hive of activity again as the Officers began taking up supplies, ready to follow Jones out into the field to tend the enemy wounded.
"You put the fear of Christ into him," Cornet Brownlow said. William turned his baleful glare on the Cornet, who took a full step back. "Sir," he added, adopting a meek visage.
The Colonel ducked out of the tent. He caught sight of Doctor Jones further along the avenue, rushing to assist the Continentals.
"Doctors," Tavington spat. "They believe themselves to be in a command chain entirely of their own. I will not have my authority questioned. He should have known better."
"No doubt he does now," Cornet Brownlow said. "Sir, may I ask why you would have whipped him? For refusing to tend enemy wounded…"
"It was his refusal of the Colonel's order," it was Captain Bordon who replied.
"What will happen to them now? The Continentals, I mean."
"They are to be sent on to the ships, those who survive," Tavington said. "Cornwallis will, I would imagine, try to turn them. Offer them amnesty if they chose to fight for us. Beyond that, I neither know nor care what happens to them."
"How much longer until the city falls, do you imagine?" Bordon asked.
"Days, perhaps. If they do not surrender before Clinton's final push, the entire city will be decimated."
"Let us hope for surrender," Bordon said.
"How very humane of you."
"That's me, charitable to the last," Bordon laughed and a ghost of a smile crossed Tavington's lips. "No, Colonel, you need not fear that I have grown soft. I could not care less for the inhabitants of this fine city, it is a bath that I covet."
"A bath, Sir?" Brownlow asked, eyebrows lifted.
"Yes, Cornet. We have spent weeks in these fetid swamps, in this damnable heat, with nary a splash of water on my person to sustain me. It is a bath I covet most just now. A long hot soak in the largest tub I can find. I will have an assortment of pomades and scented soaps, the water will be hot to scalding and will be a very content Captain. And then, I shall climb into bed - betwixt the cleanest sheets on the softest mattress, and I shall sleep for a week."
"Soaps, pomades and clean sheets? And you claim you have not grown soft," Tavington scoffed.
"What will you do when we reach the city, Sir?" Brownlow asked Tavington, who laughed softly.
"First, a bath," he admitted and Bordon chuckled. "I shall borrow Bordon's pomades and soaps, and I too shall be climbing into a nice clean, soft bed."
"Now who has grown soft?" Bordon asked.
"The difference is, Captain, that I do not intend to climb into this bed alone, nor will I 'sleep for a week' like you, Captain."
"You expect to spend the week fucking, do you? I doubt you'll last two hours," Bordon laughed outright and Brownlow's face flushed crimson.
"Generous of you, giving me two hours," Tavington laughed his first real laugh in days. "Ah, yes, it'll be a fine thing to get some damned respite from all this. If only it were winter. Remember Philadelphia?"
"Gods, yes, how could I forget?" Bordon asked. The two began to reminisce over their long and very pleasurable winter quarters in Philadelphia, with Brownlow trailing along behind them. It was summer, however, the Senior Officers in His Majesties Army suspected their stay in Charlestown would likely be a short one, and both intended to live every moment of leisure to its fullest.
Charlestown: May 8th, 1780
After the constant cannonade, it was eerily quiet. Miss Elizabeth Martin stood before the large bank of windows and gazed out to the harbour. It was quite disconcerting, seeing the British flag fly high over Sullivan's Island Where before it had been the blue flag with a palmetto tree, the flag of South Carolina. Sullivan's had surrendered and all was in disarray.
It was so quiet. Not outside on the street, that was more of a bustle than ever. But the earthworks surrounding the city were silenced, so too were the British man-o-wars in the harbour. She'd grown accustomed to the constant barrage of fire, but now… Eerily quiet. The British Commander and Chief was allowing a ceasefire, to give General Lincoln time to read the terms he offered if Lincoln would surrender the city. If Lincoln accepted, then all this, the last five years of defending their city, would all be for nothing. If he did not… Beth shuddered to think. The final assault Clinton threatened them with was going to be… spectacular.
What would my father choose, were he here? She wondered. Surrender, she decided. Her father hadn't wanted this war to start with.
Outside, men, women and children were rushing past on horseback and in carriages. Charlestown was a bustling sort of place, but during the two years she'd been living there, she'd never seen so much traffic on the streets all at once. The Patriots of Charlestown were fleeing, lest they be caught by the British and punished for their five years of rebellion.
As Mrs. Charlotte Selton came to stand beside her, Beth asked, "where in the world do they think they're going, aunt?"
"Anywhere but here," Charlotte murmured, pulling her cape close about her shoulders as if she felt a chill and never mind that the sun was hot enough to fry corn cakes.
"Should we be leaving too?" Beth asked, turning back to the bustle on the street. For Beth's family were Patriots, every single one of them.
If the city surrendered, the American Army would abandon the city to the British. Soon, in the next few days, perhaps, there would be a sea of Redcoats on the streets where for the past five years, there had been a sea of Blue. Any Patriots that remained would be at the mercy of the British.
Continental Blue Coat Regimentals had dominated the streets for years - well before Beth ever arrived there. She wondered what would become of them if it were true, that the city was indeed about to surrender.
"Your uncle will have the situation well in hand," Charlotte said, sounding confident as she spoke of her brother, Mr. Mark Putman. "If he thought we were in any danger, he would have had us fleeing the city days ago. Besides," she murmured, "it's too late now."
"Too late?"
"The British have surrounded the city, Beth - it might become unsafe here in the next few days, but I assure you, it'll be even more so out there. All of these that are leaving now should have done so days ago, if they were so inclined. They have left it too late, they will be caught on the roads and accosted…"
"Oh," Beth whispered. Accosted? She searched among the feeling Patriots, her eyes picking out one family, a husband ushering along his wife and children. What would happen to the little ones, should the British stop them? Accosted… "they wouldn't hurt little ones, would they?" She asked her aunt.
"Perhaps not," Charlotte placed her hands at her waist, her back straight and tall, the picture of calm. "They are not here to coddle rebels, Beth."
"Rebels," Beth breathed, starting to feel the weight of it settle on her shoulders. "We're rebels. And we've been caught by the enemy."
"You do not need to fear, Beth. You have committed no treason that I can recall," Charlotte sounded amused. "Anymore then I have. We have never overtly shown our allegiance." Beth nodded, her aunt was the embodiment of grace and dignity - she had never done anything overtly.
"My father is an Assemblyman," Beth pointed out, fretting. "And my brother is a Continental. Our family have shown its allegiance, even if we have not."
"Your father spoke against this war in that very Assembly. And you can hardly be held to account for what your brother has done. Beth, I doubt the British would even learn you have a brother, let alone that he is what they deem to be a rebel. Please, place your faith in your uncle. As I said, he will have everything well in hand."
"Very well."
"Besides, your father has not yet recalled you, therefore I can only assume he is not particularly worried. Your school is here, your Aunt and I are here, and you still have -" Charlotte cut short with a small indrawn breath. To finish her sentence would be to insult the girl, who indeed still had a long way to go with her schooling. Charlotte and her sister in law, Mage Putman, had fought too hard for entirely too long, to get their hands on their niece to begin her much needed instruction. Instruction she would have received at her mother's hands, had she not died in child bed eight years ago. Beth had been allowed to roam free on her father's Plantation on the Santee, for far too long. She'd been almost a savage by the time her father finally relented and gave her over into Charlotte and Mage's care. Well, perhaps not quite a savage, but not far off. The girl was being taught to hunt in the woods alongside her brothers, for goodness sake. Charlotte had the utmost respect and love for her brother in law, but by Gods, Benjamin Martin could be a darned fool at times.
"I still have what?" Beth asked, oblivious.
"Your school will not close, Beth. And Mage and I are still here, so your tuition shall continue."
"And my friends are here," Beth grinned and Charlotte heaved a sigh. It was clear what Beth considered to be more important. But if she wished to continue keeping company with her companions, then her continued lessons were of utmost importance. The girls that had taken a liking to Beth were of families as prominent as her own. The difference was, they had been reared in the correct manner, deportment and gentility were second nature to them. Beth did have some manners, her mother had not been idle when the girl was young. But the years without her guidance had… taken their toll.
A savage aristocrat. Charlotte almost laughed out loud, for that was precisely what Beth was. Charlotte and Mage were doing all they could to temper the savage, and encourage the aristocrat. She gazed down at her niece, eyeing the girls posture and her demeanour, and had to admit too feeling pleased. Two years ago, Beth might have run through the house all the way down to the street to watch the goings on, she might have even called out to strangers to talk them as they passed. Now, however, she stood as regally as Charlotte herself, keeping about herself a sedate air, showing none of her excitement. With a smile, Charlotte placed her arm around the girl and the two continued to watch the goings on out on the street.
Those families fleeing below, were many of the prominent Charlestown families who had been most vocal in their rebellion. Those elitist individuals who had, until now, governed all of South Carolina. If they remained, they risked becoming hostages to the British.
Though she was a Patriot from a prominent family herself, Charlotte Selton did not feel she was in any danger of being taken captive. She held no political power, had no ties of marriage or blood to any who did. Well, except for Benjamin Martin of course. Charlotte gnawed at her bottom lip fretfully and glanced at her young niece, Benjamin's daughter.
Were Beth's concerns founded? Should she fear for her niece? As Beth had pointed out, her father had been an Assemblyman, he held a position on the Governing body that had been steering the state on its present course. Benjamin's views had not been as radical as some of the others, but would the British see it that way? He'd encouraged change, but had spoken quite firmly against going to war.
Mark said we will be fine, Charlotte reassured herself, though the worry persisted. Why in the world did her brother wish to remain, now that it was clear the British would be moving in?
"Come, Beth. Sit back down," Charlotte guided her niece toward the chair she had been occupying earlier, she had been absorbed in a book before the eruption of sound drew her to the window. Miss Elizabeth Anne Martin, Charlotte's late sister's eldest daughter. Beth had lived in Charlestown these past two years. She stayed at times with Charlotte, and at others with Charlotte's brother, Mark Putman, and his wife and daughter. Their influence had helped vastly in Beth's improvement, Charlotte was almost of the opinion that Beth had finally become the genteel lady she was meant to be.
Charlotte rang a bell, summoning one of her negroes. The two discussed the menu for tonights dinner, then Charlotte went to sit at her spinnet, where she played through several pieces. Beth was reclined on a chaise, staring hard at the leather bound book she held propped open against her knees. Though she now feigning indifference to what was occurring beyond the parlour out on the street - Charlotte knew better. Beth had been staring at the same page for half an hour now. She sat tensely rather than at her ease and she was a little too pale, her dark brown eyes strained. She hid it well, another indication that her lessons were working, but Charlotte clearly saw that her niece was not insensible to the turmoil outside.
As an Assemblyman's daughter, Beth could be of interest to the British... The enemy was well known for taking key members of prominent Patriot families into their 'protection'. These 'guests' were then used as the British saw fit. As pieces on the game board of war.
I hope you know what you're doing, Mark, Charlotte thought. After much consideration, Charlotte dismissed her concerns. Mark himself was staying with his wife and daughter, Beth's cousin Cilla, who was only two months younger. .
Beth is in no more danger than Cilla. Or than myself or Mage or Mark, Charlotte decided as she turned the page and continued playing her ballad. The musical sounds of the spinnet did little to drown the noise from outside, the commotion on the street still sounded quite as fraught as before.
Then again, Colonel Harry Burwell, commander of the Continental Army had been courting Beth these past two years...
Charlotte's fingers stopped dead to hover an inch above the keys. Would the lass Colonel Burwell had been so interest in marrying in turn become of interest to the British?
Surely Mark would have taken this into account, when he decided it was all safe for them to stay? Charlotte's agitation returned.
"I've been thinking, Beth."
"Yes, I could hear you from here," Beth replied. Charlotte ignored the quip as she strolled over to a chair and seated herself, arranging her silk skirts around her legs just so.
"Yes, I believe we will go for a walk when the streets calm down. There is somewhat I would like to discuss with my brother."
"Wonderful! Can we have dinner there? Oh, can I sleep over with Cilla tonight?"
Charlotte nodded slowly as her fear began to increase. "Yes. I believe we both shall." She said, feeling worried about what was happening beyond the city walls. "I'd rather we were not alone tonight."
Beth nodded and Charlotte wished she'd kept her mouth shut, for the fear was returning to Beth as well.
"What do you want to discuss with him?" Beth asked.
"Well. He did not want us fleeing into danger, which many of those poor souls outside are no doubt doing. However, perhaps he can have us removed from the city, when the furore dies down. Despite what he has said, I am not so certain that Charlestown is the place for us right now. Besides, I miss…" your father, Charlotte thought, but out loud, she said, "the Santee." Thinking of Benjamin, she smiled warmly and a glow spread through her stomach.
"We should certainly discuss it, at the very least," Beth said finally.
Charlotte's eyebrows climbed her forehead.
"No argument? I'm surprised at you, Beth. I had thought you would want to stay here with your friends."
"And I will miss them dearly. I believe many of my friends will leave. It will be an entirely different place, if the British take the city. Why does uncle Mark want to stay?"
"A question I shall be asking him when we set out this afternoon," Charlotte said. A servant was entering with a tray of cordial, corn cakes and fruit for the ladies when shockingly, the commotion from outside spilled suddenly into Charlotte's two story townhouse.
"Miss Martin!" A man shouted from the front door downstairs. Beth and Charlotte shared a startled glance as they heard the front door slam, then urgent, heavy footfalls thudding up the stairs.
"Is that Colonel Burwell?" Beth marked the page her book and placed it on the table before her.
"It sounds like it," Charlotte replied.
"Miss Martin," the panicked shout was closer now as Beth's would be fiancé pounded quickly up the stairs.
Beth rose from the chaise, straightening her hair and her silk skirts as she did so. She thought she did a fair imitation of her Aunt Charlotte who had also risen from her chair to greet their unexpected guest, polite and dignified as always.
"Miss Martin," Colonel Harry Burwell burst into the parlor, looking frantic.
"Colonel," Beth said, voice urgent. "You should have been gone long ago. I'm shocked that you're still here, the British are on our doorstep!"
"They certainly are," Harry Burwell's sword clinked at his side as he strode across the chamber to stand before her. He reached for her hand and pressed his lips against the back of her fingers. Should he tell her of the battle he'd just fought? Shame seared his soul. Not only had Tavington routed him utterly, Burwell himself had fled the field. It was not something he wished to admit to the woman he loved, whom he wanted to marry. "I would not leave, not without… I went to your Uncle's house first... He said…" a dark cloud passed over Harry's face. He continued, "he said he is not leaving. He said that you and Mrs. Selton are staying too."
Beth cocked her head, she had the distinct feeling that the Colonel had been about to say something else entirely. "Do you think we shouldn't?" She asked, looking him over. She had never seen the Colonel look so disheveled or distressed, even during the most harrowing days of the siege, the days the city was being bombarded by the British man-o-wars in the harbour. His ordinarily immaculate Continental Bluecoat was creased and dirty, even his hair was coming loose from its queue, long strands framing his face in a messy array. Beth's breath caught with worry. He was always stolid and dependable! If he could be fearful now, she should be terrified! "You think we should leave, don't you? You think we're in danger."
Harry took hold of both her hands and pressed them to his lips, a look of agony crossing his face. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to alarm you."
"Why, what has happened?" Charlotte asked in a calm voice. Beth did not think anything could ruffle her Aunt. "Are the Redcoats in the streets already?"
"No, no. Not yet. But it won't be long now, Lincoln will surrender, I believe he has no choice."
"Then you need to leave, Sir," Beth said, voice firm.
"I am, I am going," Burwell's voice was quieter now, almost back to normal as he turned to address Charlotte. "Mrs. Selton, please forgive me the intrusion. Nothing more has happened beyond what you are already apprised of," his fingers wound through Beth's, a strong grip that he did not want to release. "Charlestown will soon fall, there is very little time."
All eyes turned to the door as another man entered the parlor, equally winded. Burwell, in his haste to find Beth, had outrun the younger Lieutenant Gabriel Martin.
"Sir, there is not much time, we have to leave," Gabriel declared urgently. Beth sensed her brother was fighting for calm. "Beth, Aunt Charlotte, are you well?"
The women spared Gabriel a glance and a nod. It was Burwell, however, who held their attention.
"Another moment, Lieutenant. Mrs. Selton, your brother has told of his intention to remain in the city, one that I am most unhappy about, though I understand his reasoning."
"I am glad someone does," Charlotte said and Burwell gave her a look.
"Well, yes, of course he would not have… Madam, I am to escort Governor Rutledge to safety, I have sent my men to protect him and we will soon be ready to ride from the city. I have come to ask Miss Martin," Burwell cast a quick glance at Beth. "To come with me."
Charlotte's eyes widened, at a loss for words. Beth was just as stunned.
"Colonel, Mr. Martin has entrusted my brother and I with his daughters keeping. I will not allow her to leave with the army with no more than her brother for a chaperone, and Gabriel's duties will keep him away more often than not. He will be no proper chaperone. I will not allow it, even if she were to take Mila - "
"I am sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Selton," he said abruptly. "I understand your concerns. Please hear mine. It is common knowledge that I have been courting Miss Martin these last two years. As the more Patriotic families abandon the city, the Loyalists who were forced from it five years ago will begin to return. It will only be a short time before the British discover my..." Burwell glanced at Beth, his voice softened, "very great affection for her. I fear they may try to use her to gain some advantage over me. Commander in Chief Clinton and Lord Cornwallis are not above taking hostages to control the Patriots fighting against them. Miss Martin must leave, for her safety."
"I have had growing concerns that way myself, I admit," Charlotte said, nodding gravely. "However, with respect, Colonel, I do not believe you are thinking clearly."
"No?" He asked incredulously. "Mrs. Selton - there is no time -"
"Sir," she over rode his protests firmly, with Gabriel and Beth watching anxiously. "You say you are escorting John Rutledge? Would that not make you a very large target?" She paused a moment, allowing her words to sink in. "The British will want to secure all prominent Patriot families, the Governor of our city first and foremost! A fact you know well, or you would not be helping him to escape. There would be no need. Think about it a moment, Sir. You will be riding - as fast and as hard as your horses will carry you, in order to put as much distance between Rutledge and the Redcoats as possible. You may even come under fire, Sir. Almost undoubtedly, you will. Or you might be captured. That is what you are not thinking clearly about. You worry about the potential, eventual danger to Beth, without thinking of the immediate danger you could be putting her in. A stray ball is all it would take," a tremble coursed through her body as she pictured Beth being shot from her horse. "Or if you're captured, how then will she be treated? I am sorry, Sir, but under absolutely no circumstances will my niece be accompanying you on this fraught mission."
Burwell opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and tightened his lips.
"Have no fear, Colonel," Charlotte continued. "I am going to discuss the matter with Mr. Putman this afternoon. He has already assured me that we are all safe here -"
"I do not believe that you are," Burwell said, voice strangled.
"Be that as it may, it is my brother's decision. And her father's. I will express my opinion that perhaps we should consider retiring from the city, but I assure you, Sir, it will be done only after great consideration. Travelling has as much risk as staying, especially the sort of travel that you propose."
"When? How long before you leave?"
"I did not say we would," Charlotte said pointedly.
"Only that you would consider it. Good God, Mrs. Selton, Miss Martin must leave now -"
"Surely Miss Martin should have a say in this?" Beth asked tartly, suddenly irritated with the both of them. It was all Aunt Charlotte, uncle Mark's and Harry Burwell's decision, was it?
Burwell and Charlotte's eyes fell on Beth, both seeming so surprised that she had spoken, Beth wondered if they had forgotten she was there!
"Beth..." Gabriel murmured from the doorway.
"Perhaps not," Beth ignored her brother's warning. "The both of you are debating my future just fine without me, perhaps I should simply sit down," she suited her words by sitting on the chaise and arranging her skirts about her. She placed her hands in her lap. "And you can let me know what you have decided, when it's all settled."
"Forgive me, Miss Martin," Colonel Harry Burwell, high ranking officer of the Continental Army and veteran of the Cherokee war, sounded suitably chastened. "Please know it comes from my great affection for you and concern for your welfare, that I speak so rashly. Could I have a moment of your time, Miss Martin? Alone."
Beth glanced at Charlotte.
Charlotte stood stock still, her eyes widening by the moment. Was this it? Would Burwell propose now, of all times? He met her gaze and she had her answer, the blood drained from her face. Gods, he was about to propose. Of all the times… Drawing in a long breath, she inclined her head and began to walk toward the door. Under no other circumstance would she leave her niece alone with a man, but in this… Of all the foolish times… Still, she took hold of her nephew's arm and steered him toward the door.
"There's no time!" Gabriel muttered.
"For this, there must be," Charlotte replied.
Wondering what her aunt meant, Beth watched them both step into the hall, Aunt Charlotte closed the door behind her. Shocked, Beth gaped. She gazed up at Harry, feeling quite strange. Strained. She'd never been alone in a room with him before, certainly not with the door closed.
The silence stretched. Burwell began to pace back and forth, his thumb stroking the sword at his waist. He spun to her, opened his mouth, then clicked it shut before pacing again. Finally, after taking a deep breath, Burwell strode forward and knelt before Beth, taking her small, soft hand in his. Beth's eyes almost bulged from their sockets.
"Miss Martin, will you marry me?" The words tumbled out in a rush. Although Beth knew it was coming, had known for some time now, she could not help feeling shocked to her core.
"Marry you...?" She breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Beth, I am no great orator. I am a simple man, in my way. A simple soldier."
And one of the most powerful, well respected men in the Colonies. As well as one of the wealthiest... Beth's mind raced, thwart with indecision. He is handsome... But he is so much older! Wouldn't it be like marrying my father? Gods, my father. He wants this, so very much. Benjamin Martin had served under Harry Burwell in the Cherokee War, their friendship had been forged in fire and blood decades ago. And when Burwell had started showing such keen interest in Beth two years earlier, Benjamin had made it clear he desired for their bond to be more deeply forged - by marriage. Beth knew just how deeply disappointed her father would be, if she refused. Oh Gods, what do I do? I do care for him, but I don't love him. But my father... There would be no greater match for me and my family... I'd have to have a very good reason to refuse. Oh Lord... What do I do? Her uncertain mind raced as Harry continued to speak.
"But you must know by now that you have quite stolen my heart," he continued. "I have been widowed for so long, I thought never to fall in love again. I knew you as a little girl, but… do you remember that day, when your father came to the city for the meeting?" Beth nodded, remembering. The entire city had been in an uproar, shouting and men firing off their rifles. And inside the Exchange, the Assembly sat. Beth had been there, sitting beside her Aunts, her father, her uncle, her brothers. She recalled her father, rising up to give a speech, with the entire hall listening to his every word. She hadn't know until that moment, just how important her father was. And then there was Harry Burwell, who also rose and gave his own speech. He'd said then, that he was no orator. But he'd held his audience as captivated as Benjamin Martin had, even though every word he spoke was in direct opposition to that of his oldest friend. Where Benjamin had spoken of patience and caution, Burwell had spoken of boldness and resilience. He had an unyielding belief in the Colonies strength and fortitude. They could free themselves of their oppressors, they could fight, and break the chains. Beth had been enthralled. Nonetheless, she hadn't fallen in love. Burwell felt differently of that night, however. "From the moment I saw you, grown into this beautiful, young woman, I knew I wished to spend the rest of my life with you, when before, I never had any intention of ever marrying again. It was too painful, the grief," he paused, struggling as his voice thickened with remembered grief. "I was so helpless, I vowed I could never go through it again. But then you were presented to me, the little girl grown into this glorious young lady. Oh, your aunties both despaired for you, because you did not have the gentle rearing you should have. With your father raising you, how could they expect anything else?" He laughed. "He taught you everything he taught to his boys and yes, perhaps that was wrong of him, but I loved seeing that in you. That wildness and that strength. But that is not all there is to you. Your father influenced you, but as soon as you were turned over to your aunts, Lord, how you thrived! It's been my utter pleasure to witness you grow into the woman you are today, the genteel lady with the wild streak."
"You are no great orator?" She laughed down at him.
A chuckle escaped his lips, a release of tension, despite his panic and need to be away. "No, I am not. You bring out the best in me." Finally, fine words failed him. He shrugged his shoulders and breathed deeply in an effort to steady his nerves. "I love you, Miss Martin. Will you marry me?"
"You love me?" Beth whispered. Gazing down at his earnest and open face now, she finally understood the depth of his feelings for her.
"Indeed I do," he said quietly. "I could not stand it - knowing you are here, under their very noses. Miss Martin, if they took you... Lord, the very thought. I am answerable to a higher authority - Washington would not authorise me to meet the demands that would see you freed."
"You wouldn't be able to protect me," she breathed, stunned. Fear twisted her stomach, Burwell had painted a bleak picture for her indeed. Especially if he would not be allowed to meet the British demands to free her - how long would she be their prisoner? Would they shove her into a small, damp cell and throw away the key?
"I wouldn't," he admitted, cupping her face with his hands. "Please Miss Martin, you must come away with me -"
"You know I can not, not if the circumstances will be anything close to what my aunt just described," Beth shook her head. "I must stay here with them." His face fell, he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. She'd never been so close to him, so near that she could smell his scent and feel his warmth.
"Please, Miss Martin. Don't let me leave without hope," he whispered. "I love you. Please, will you marry me?"
Gods, what was she going to do? To become engaged, here and now. How her father would rejoice! She was still very uncertain, however. She needed more time! He was demanding an answer, here, now, before he fled with Rutledge to who knew what fate.
"Sir," she wrapped her fingers around his wrists, his hands still cupping her face. She gazed up at him, their lips inches apart. "If you fear what might become of me merely because you courted me, how much worse would it be for your betrothed?"
Harry's eyes widened to sauces and he drew in a long, shocked breath.
"I hadn't thought of that," he whispered. Not quite meeting her eyes, he asked, "do you refuse me, then?"
Gods, her father would be so deeply disappointed, if she did.
"No," she shook her head. "I do not. I… I just… I barely know my own mind right now, I just… I need more time, Colonel."
"Time?" He asked, sounding almost amused. "Of that, I have none."
"But we have plenty, do we not? I am not refusing you, Sir, I am not. I am fond of you, very fond, and I do not mean to cause you pain. I just… I need more time and I do not want to rush into this just because the British are about to take Charlestown and you must be away on the hour. You don't have time just now, but we do have plenty."
She heard him sigh as he nodded, accepting her answer.
"You're quite right, we have plenty," he agreed. "I was just so frightened, I wanted to spirit you away and then when you could not come, I thought…"
"Becoming engaged was the answer?" She smiled.
"But it isn't, becoming engaged would make you a target," he said, agreeing with her there, too. "I could not bear it, Beth, if something bad were to happen to you."
Beth smiled warmly and began to laugh.
"I couldn't bear it either if something bad were to happen to me. I am not particularly brave, you know."
"Not brave..." Burwell snorted. "You are a lioness, dear heart."
"Colonel! We must go." Gabriel was in the doorway again, impatient and tense. His eyes widened at the scene before him, his Commanding Officer's forehead pressed to Beth's, as if they might have been kissing. He paused, then asked, "should we be celebrating, Sir?"
"No, not yet. Your sister is too sensible to marry me."
"Beth," Gabriel hissed, eyes narrowed.
"Do not take her to task, Lieutenant, her reasoning was sound."
"She refused you!" Gabriel sounded outraged and Beth knew how deeply it would distress her family, if she eventually did refuse Burwell.
"Though it's not truly your business, Gabriel, I did not refuse Colonel Burwell," Beth said, folding her arms across her chest, anger stirring at the pressure she was feeling. "I have merely postponed my answer."
"As your sister pointed out, Lieutenant, if I consider her to be in some danger merely because I courted her, how much more would it be if she and I were betrothed?"
Burwell met her eyes and smiled, she squeezed his hand gently. It was to thank him, though he knew it not. None of the pressure she felt was from him. Her family, most certainly. But there was none from Harry Burwell.
"Yes, I see the sense in that," Gabriel said, voice urgent, as if he wanted this settled immediately and to be on their way on the moment. "You could be engaged in secret, no one but her family would need to know."
"Yes, we could," Burwell said. Some panic must have shown on Beth's face, for Burwell's smile deepened, and as he leaned forward to kiss her brow, he whispered, "but you need more time. I'll grant it, Miss Martin. Even if your family prefer otherwise."
"Thank you," she whispered back. In that moment, she wondered at herself. In every aspect of his life, in his dealings with the army, the other gentlemen, and with her, he'd only ever proven over and over again, that he was the best of men. Even now, in his proposal to her. Why was she reticent? What was she waiting for?
"And yes, we must be away," Burwell said. "Lieutenant, please ensure our mounts are ready to ride." He waited as Gabriel disappeared through the door. With a disappointed frown, this time he left the door wide open.
"Promise me you will stay safe," Burwell stroked Beth's cheek gently. He gazed at her intently, trying to memorize her features. It would be some time before he saw her again, of that he had no doubt.
"I promise, Colonel."
Burwell lowered his head to hers. Time slowed, her breath caught in her throat as he gently brushed his lips across hers. Now this, she'd certainly never done with any man. Her first ever kiss and it was every bit as she'd imagined it would be. Even more so. She closed her eyes and leaned into him as his lips moved across hers.
No, it would not be like marrying my father... She thought, before her mind ceased working altogether. Her heart began to race and her body grew warm from her stomach to her cheeks. Burwell tightened his hold on her, pulling her close and deepening the kiss. Just as Beth's knees began to feel weak, an urgent voice called up the stairs.
"Colonel!" Major Bryant shouted. "We have to leave, now!"
Burwell moaned against her lips and reluctantly broke the kiss. He drew back to gaze at Beth, then rested his forehead on hers.
"I love you, Miss Martin," he whispered. "Please stay safe."
"I will," she said a little breathlessly. "You be careful out there, Harry. And write to me if you can."
"Harry..." Burwell's smile lit his face, making him appear years younger. "You've never called me that before..."
"And you've never kissed me before," she breathed.
"Did you like it?"
"Colonel!" The shout was even more insistent now.
"Yes," she whispered with a giggle.
"You know that it means we're engaged now, don't you?" He asked, half teasing. "If your father knew I'd kissed you, he'd certainly consider us so."
"I know," she smiled back, sensing he was not entirely seriously.
"Sir!" That insistent shout.
"Yes! I know!" Burwell's bellow was louder than a lions roar and it made Beth gasp. "I'm sorry," he whispered, for the shout. "I'll carry that kiss with me, Beth," he said, using her name for the first time. "A promise of our future." And then he was kissing her again, short but deep, leaving Beth gasping. Burwell drew back, his breath was ragged and his face was flushed. "Walk with me to the door?" He asked, his voice sounded different - thicker, breathier. She nodded and wound her fingers through his and they turned to the hall. Charlotte stood there, in the hall, her eyes wide and stunned. Burwell gave her a short bow. As they passed her, Charlotte fell in behind them.
They made their way through the house, down the stairs, to the back door where at least ten Bluecoat Officers were waiting. There were other farewells to be made, speedy through necessity. Beth released Burwell's hand, she embraced Peter Cuppin first, a lad she had grown up with. Then it was Gabriel's turn. She threw her arms around his neck and held on for dear life.
"Stay safe and write to me, if you can," Beth said against Gabriel's ear.
"I will, I promise. I have to go, Beth," Gabriel unwound his sisters arms from his neck and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She brushed back his blonde hair and stared into his brown eyes, the exact same shade as hers. They resembled each other more than any of their other siblings, both taking after their late mother.
Gabriel embraced Charlotte next while Burwell said his last farewell to Beth. He did not kiss her again, no in front of the others. Not on the lips, anyway.
"Fare thee well, my love," he said simply, kissing her hand with longing.
"Write to me, Harry," Beth said, "I'll be so worried if you don't."
"I promise it, Beth," he replied.
Charlotte came to stand beside Beth and the two women stood on the back porch waving goodbye as the small detachment of Continental soldiers left the yard.
"He asked me to marry him," Beth said quietly. Her arm was raised high, she was still waving as the men retreated down the street.
"I know. So, my dear niece, are you engaged?" Charlotte said in a teasing voice, as if she already knew the answer.
"I…" Beth gazed up at her Aunt, so much taller than she. "I don't know."
"How in the world don't you know?" Charlotte's amusement slipped to confusion, as it so often did where Beth was concerned.
Beth chewed the inside of her lip as she watched the men mount. Harry gave her one last look, he tipped his hat to her, bowed from the saddle, then guided his horse from the yard.
"Can we talk?" Beth asked Charlotte when the last of the Continentals were gone.
"Always," Charlotte said gently. She slid her arm through Beth's and guided her back into the house.