Most of this story takes place shortly after the battle of Guilford Courthouse, which wasnt covered in the movie but would have been between the big fight at "Cowpens" and the end narration on the surrender at Yorktown. Our man Bordon survived his wounds at the hands of Gabriel after the Pembroke incident and subsequently sat-out Cowpens as he recovered. I've used the movie version of the battle (horribly inaccurate as it is), but moved it to its proper time, in January. This story is dedicated to Janeen and Andrea, for starting the fab Bordon yahoo group ( http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Bordons_camp_followers/ ), and all the group's members! Love you guys! ~Julie (Bordon archive webmistress)
March 20th, 1781- Cross Creek, North Carolina
James Bordon ran his fingers over the new stripes on his jacket, his gaze distant. Six months earlier he would have been overjoyed at the promotion to Major, but now it merely stirred the cold emptiness inside him. Following his serious wound at the hands of the Ghost's son outside Pembroke, then Captain Bordon had been hauled back to the British camp on Turkey Creek by his commanding officer Colonel William Tavington and another survivor of the ambush, a young Cornet named Jasper Wilmington.
His wounds had been grievous and the surgeons marveled at the fact he was still alive when the field hospital attendants carried him in, ashen faced and drenched in his own blood. The rebel's knife had penetrated deeply under his ribcage, ripping through his diaphragm and puncturing his left lung. With the extensive blood-loss and the Captain's horrible wheezing as he lay on the table, none of the doctors thought he'd make it through the night. He would have been abandoned completely in favor of other patients with more hopeful outlooks for recovery if not for the insistence of Colonel Tavington, who'd actually held one of the younger surgeons at gunpoint until the man agreed to see to his second in command. Only then had the Colonel consented to having his own wounds looked after, keeping a watchful eye on Bordon's nervous young medical officer the entire time.
The surgeon and his assistant managed to stop the external bleeding
from the knife's entrance wound, but could do nothing for the internal
damage. Unable to determine the seriousness of the lung puncture, all they
could do was sit and wait. If the tear was small and clotted quickly, there
was a possibility of recovery- if it was large the bleeding would not stop.
His lungs would continue to fill with semi-clotted blood until the fluid
became so thick it would prevent breathing, and the Captain would effectively
drown in his own blood.
A nurse sat with him through the night, wiping away the flecks of blood
laced foam that formed on his lips and around his nostrils as he labored
for breath. Somehow he made it through that night, and then the next. A
week later he was still hanging on and the doctors were speechless. They
continued to wait, every morning expecting to find that Bordon had slipped
off during the night, only to find him in state unchanged. Two weeks after
his injury they finally resolved to themselves that the Captain wasn't
going anywhere and put him into a sort of holding pattern. He was given
a permanent bed in a quiet end of one of the hospital tents and checked
several times a day by members of the medical staff.
Thus time passed and the war continued, with James Bordon oblivious
to the world around him. The weather cooled as winter settled over the
Carolinas, and the doctors became weary that the weakened state of Bordon's
lungs might invite a bout of pneumonia-- but again luck intervened and
his recovery progressed slowly.
By mid-January, a month after surviving the ambush at the creek, Bordon
was often conscious for short periods of time. Denied the blessings of
oblivion, he finally had to begin coping with the intense pain and discomfort
of his injuries. A number of times he'd awoken, thrashing about his cot
in a panic, convinced that someone must be standing on his chest- the act
of breathing was so hard and torturous. The doctors denied him laudanum
for treatment of the pain, not only because it was in short supply but
also on their belief that it might do him more harm than good. Any lowering
of his blood pressure the drug might cause could have been enough to kill
him, considering his anemic, oxygen deprived state. So he'd floated in
and out of awareness, between the raging pain of wakefulness and the numb
relief of unconsciousness.
At one point, he awoke to find himself in the midst of a chaotic uproar.
His quiet end of the hospital tent was quiet no more as the surgical staff
raced about in a frenzy, treating the hundreds of new casualties that had
just flooded back into camp. Bordon made the great effort of turning his
head slightly toward the commotion, his mind trying to put names to faces
amidst the dizzying confusion whilst fighting back the blackness that tried
to swallow him again. Through the maze of moving legs and arms, a familiar
red and green shape caught his attention. The uniform labeled the man as
a member of the Green Dragoons, Bordon's own unit. Two surgical assistants
carried the limp form to a nearby cot and Bordon squinted to see, recognizing
the contorted face of Captain John Wilkins before his vision faded and
unconsciousness claimed him once more.
When the world returned to him a short while later, he discovered Wilkins
on the cot next to his own. The man was motionless and ashen-faced in the
flickering light of the lamps, his eyes locked on the roof of the tent
in a blank stare. One of the nurses had pulled the man's blankets up to
his chin against the cold, which was enough to turn Bordon's ragged breaths
into thin wisps of white vapor on the chilled night air. Mustering every
bit of strength he had, Bordon managed to extend his arm over the expanse
that separated their cots and tug lightly on the blanket.
'John?' his voice was a weak rasp between effort-filled breaths. The
effort of speaking sent jagged bolts of pain through his chest and left
him wheezing fitfully on the cot, his hand in a tight fist clinging to
the other man's coverlet. Wilkins made no movement and did not respond,
prompting Bordon to tug on it again. The loyalist Captain's head lolled
to face him as the blanket caught and pulled under his chin, and Bordon
saw the glassy lifelessness in the man's eyes before exhaustion sent him
spinning back into darkness.
Hours later, Bordon woke screaming. Almost immediately, hands reached
out to restrain him lest his thrashing further aggravate his injuries.
"Captain Bordon! Captain Bordon, PLEASE! Calm down! Sergeant Allen,
come here quickly!" General Charles O'Hara pinned Bordon's shoulders to
the cot as a young medic rushed over to restrain his legs. Feeling the
hands gripping his body, Bordon thrashed harder and opened his eyes to
face these sudden attackers, only to recognize the distressed face of the
General hovering over his.
"General…..O'Hara…..sir?" Bordon's movements ceased and he lay painfully gasping for breath, his vision slowly focusing on the man standing over him.
O'Hara sighed in relief and slowly slackened his grip, sinking onto a simple wooden chair someone had placed at the bedside.
"Goodness, Captain….I thought you'd had it that time! Though I must say, even in your condition you're a dangerous fellow." O'Hara gingerly rubbed his jaw, which throbbed slightly after being caught in the path of Bordon's flailing elbow during his attempt at holding down the injured man. "Do try and get well soon, so you can start unleashing some of that energy on the Continentals, eh?"
The General forced a confident smile, as if the wounded officer's recovery
was a sure thing. Bordon was confused. Why has he come? he wondered,
noting O'Hara's attempts to comfort him. As a second in command he'd had
little contact with the Generals, most communication to and from them going
directly through their unit's commander, Colonel Tavington.
"Sir…..Wilkins…..he…..where….."
O'Hara frowned and silently cursed the surgeon that had ordered Wilkins'
placement so close to his fellow officer. Bordon's state was bad enough
without having to worry on the wellbeing of others. Nothing to be done
now. The man already knew the truth.
"Captain Wilkins succumbed to his battle wounds very early this morning,
Captain. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you…." O'Hara placed a sympathetic
hand on Bordon's arm. He had no way of knowing whether or not the two junior
officers had been friends, but assumed he would be upset at the passing
of his comrade. Bordon was silent a moment as he absorbed the words.
"Battle?"
"Yes, Captain. Yesterday morning, at a place called Hannah's Cowpens.."
"The dragoons…. How…. Where is Colonel…. Colonel Tavington?" Bordon
was weakening quickly, his eyelids starting to droop despite his attempts
to keep them open. His words were slow and drawled.
O'Hara had been dreading that question. Fortunately the Captain was
fading back into unconsciousness and the answer could wait for another
time.
"Just rest now, Captain."
That was the first of several visits General O'Hara paid Bordon as
he languished in the hospital tent. Often the Captain was sleeping when
he dropped in, and O'Hara would stay a few moments to hear of his progress
from one of the surgeons before slipping out quietly to attend to other
business. The few times he found Bordon conscious and coherent, he made
small conversation, always neatly sidestepping Bordon's inquiries into
the whereabouts of his commander and any details about the battle.
Within the week following the disaster at Cowpens, the army was on
the march, once again pursuing the Continentals. Bordon and the other severely
injured residents of the hospital tents were loaded into wagons for the
move, liberally wrapped in blankets to stave off the cold and provide some
padding against the wagons' rough wooden interiors. The jostling he received
during the bumpy journey caused terrible pain from the stab wound in his
abdomen, and for the first time he was truly glad for the relief unconsciousness
brought. The army halted at Ramsour's Mill and camp was re-established,
the injured unloaded into the newly raised hospital tents. There his recovery
continued to progress and he was soon able to sit up for short periods
of time, which relieved some of the pressure on his breathing but increased
the ache in his abdomen.
In his first visit since the move, General O'Hara was surprised to
find Captain Bordon not only awake, but completely alert and conversing
with the occupant of a neighboring bed. His breathing was still loud and
rough, but seemed stronger.
Upon noticing O'Hara's approach, Bordon's look turned serious. He was
desperate to find out what'd happened in the battle that claimed Captain
Wilkins and who knew how many other dragoons, and determined not to let
the General get away again before he got some answers.
"Good afternoon, Captain. My, you are looking much improved since I
last saw you! What say the surgeons?" O'Hara's smile was genuine.
"Thank you for your concern, sir. They're confident I'll recover, but
seem doubtful that I'll ever be able to return to combat duty.. They say
my injured lung will never heal completely, so if I were to try fighting
I'd quickly become too winded to be of any use on the field." Bordon's
eyes reflected the distress that revelation had caused him. His concern
was less for his own comfort than for the fact that he had few prospects
beyond his service in the army. If this injury prevented him from that,
what was he to do? He had nothing to go home to- no business, no family,
no grand social connections. The army was his life!
"That is most unfortunate, Captain…. Most unfortunate…." O'Hara
frowned, his eyes shaded with disappointment. They'd be without yet another
field officer! The losses of late were swiftly becoming serious, and experienced
veterans such as Bordon were irreplaceable.
Bordon saw O'Hara's silence as an opening and dove for it. "General,
if I may ask, where is Colonel Tavington? He hasn't been to see me and
I'm most eager to hear how our unit is faring. From what the private here
tells me, losses at Cowpens were quite severe.."
O'Hara cast a sharp glance at the young infantryman in the bed next
to Bordon's. He'd rolled on his side and was now making every effort to
appear asleep in order to avoid the General's gaze. The General's lips
pressed into a tight line. He has to find out sometime..
O'Hara removed his gloves slowly and deliberately, his expression turning
dark. Bordon immediately knew the news could not be good.
"You have no idea how it pains me to be the one to tell you this, Captain
Bordon. Our losses were quite bad indeed. Your unit suffered the heaviest."
He paused a moment to let the words sink in. "At the outset of the battle,
Colonel Tavington ordered a premature charge. He didn't realize it at the
time, but the Continentals were employing a tactic we've never seen before.
They positioned several lines of regulars behind a hill, such that they
were concealed from view until our dragoons were practically on top of
them. The charge faltered."
He lowered himself onto the empty cot on the other side of Bordon's
and sat, leaning heavily on his knees. The pain in the General's eyes was
obvious.
"We sent in all our infantry reserves in hopes of reinforcing the cavalry..
ALL our reserves.. but the damage was done. It was too late. The rebels
counterattacked. I thought maybe if we regrouped and wheeled to the right
we might be able to stop them, but our forces were too scattered. Our infantry
and what was left of the dragoons went into full retreat." O'Hara shook
his head despairingly. Bordon was visibly disturbed by the account, but
listened intently. He had to hear the rest.
"Colonel Tavington.. after we sent in the reserves, I lost sight of
him in the fray. The whole business was chaos such as I have never seen,
and pray I don't live to ever see again. Once those that made it out started
to regroup, Lord Cornwallis tried to seek your Colonel out, but he was
nowhere to be found. He found Wilkins in the hospital tent a short while
later, and the Captain informed him he'd witnessed the Colonel thrown from
his horse. As you now know, Wilkins was in bad shape and the Lord General
was unable to get any more information from him than that. When our burial
details returned to the field, they found Colonel Tavington not far from
where Wilkins reported last seeing him. His injuries were horrific."
Bordon jumped in eagerly, "Is he in one of the other hospital tents
then? That would explain why I haven't seen him!"
O'Hara paused again before continuing, his gaze falling to the rough
dirt beneath his highly polished boots- unable to meet the hopeful look
in Bordon's eyes. Bordon in turn couldn't help but notice how worn and
exhausted the General appeared. He'd never seen him in such a state. The
few times he'd met O'Hara before his injury, he'd always been impressed
at the General's confident bearing and composure. Suddenly the man looked
far older than his forty-one years should have allowed.
"Captain.. Colonel Tavington is dead."
That was how Captain James Bordon came to know he was the last surviving
officer of Tavington's Green Dragoons, and that his unit no longer existed.
The handful of dragoons who survived the charge had subsequently been transferred
to the other cavalry unit in the area, under the command of Colonel Banastre
Tarleton, one of Cornwallis' rising stars. Cornwallis had always preferred
Tarleton over Tavington, thinking him the more gentlemanly and obedient
of his two dragoon unit leaders. Bordon couldn't help but think that news
of his commander's death must not have caused the Lord General much sadness
or disappointment.
In the weeks that followed O'Hara's revelation, Bordon sank into depression
and his recovery slowed. The medical officers soon urged him to try walking
and performing other small tasks, but he had no motivation. Most of his
time was spent staring blankly at the cloth wall or ceiling of the tent
as they undulated gently in the breeze. When spoken to, his replies were
curt and lifeless.
One day in mid-February however, the General visited him once again,
this time bearing an offer along with his cheerful bits of encouragement
and well-wishings. With his inability to return to the field in light of
his injuries, O'Hara offered Bordon a position on his staff. He'd heard
of Bordon's value to the dragoons as an intelligence officer, and thought
those skills might prove useful- in addition to being lighter duties that
his physical state could handle. With the new position came a promotion
to Major.
Not knowing what else to do and tired of wallowing listlessly in bed
all day, Bordon accepted.
That was how he came to be promoted on the graves of his comrades and
the man who'd saved his life. Every time he looked at the stripes, as he
did now, he imagined their blood stained the fabric.
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A few notes:
On the title- The Erinyes are a trio of revenge/justice goddesses from
Greek mythology. The significance of this will become more obvious later.