A thousand soft thoughts in thy fancy combine,
A thousand wild horrors assemble in mine.
Relieve me, kind death, shut the scene from my view,
And save me, oh save me, 'ere madness ensue!
-John Andre
Liverpool, 1783
Chapter Two: The Unlikely Brothers
Thomas Tarleton stifled a yawn as he rechecked his calculations. Bookkeeping, he concluded, was the most frightfully dull occupation known to man. He drummed the fingers of his left hand anxiously on the desktop and glanced at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece across the room. It was nearly four. Someone was late.
"Of course, he's always late," Thomas sighed. "Always late, always drunk, always in dept."
It seemed to Thomas that he could sum up his brother's personality in a long list of always-es. Just a week previous, their mother, Jane Tarleton had received yet another letter from her second son asking that she remedy the debt he had once again gotten himself into. The oldest Tarleton boy could still remember how this afternoon's little conference had been arranged.
"He's impossible!" Jane cried, clutching the letter so tightly that her fingernails ripped tiny holes in the paper. "If he keeps this up we'll lose everything."
"Shall I speak with him, mother?" Thomas Tarleton had inquired, looking up from the book of poetry he had recently acquired in London.
Lady Tarleton sighed. "No one 'speaks' with Ban. He'll win you over with that charm of his, just like he does everyone else." She blushed. "Including me."
"I guarantee, my dear mother, that I am completely unaffected by Banastre's powers of persuasion," Thomas replied coldly.
"Are you quite sure, Thomas?"
He nodded.
"I will admit that business has been booming ever since you returned from your trip to France," Jane replied. "Why, I could almost say that you are almost as good at this as your father was. What did they do to you in Paris?"
Thomas' eyes widened. "Whatever do you mean, dear mother?"
Jane set Ban's letter aside. "It's only that you used to be rather shy. Now, you seem rather eager to confront your brother concerning his rather extravagant spending habits."
There was a light tapping at the door and a maid entered with a tray of tea and cakes.
"Your tea, madam."
"Thank you, Silvia."
The maid curtseyed, and was gone. Jane Tarleton filled a dark blue and gold-trimmed tea cup and added milk and sugar. She held it for a while to warm her hands. The room was almost unbearably cold, despite the cheery fire in the fireplace.
"Money brings out the worst in people, mother," Thomas explained. "I would sooner confront Banastre than see my mother starve and live in poverty."
Jane sipped her tea and smiled. "Very chivalrous."
Putting down his book, Thomas poured his own cup of tea. They sat in silence for some time, sipping their tea and thinking similar thoughts.
"Is that another volume of those terrible romantic poems you seem to enjoy so much?" Lady Tarleton asked, indicating the book."
"It is," Thomas smiled slyly. "And they are not terrible. They are quite good actually."
Alone now in his office, waiting for his brother to arrive, Thomas checked off the last of the numbers. Perfect, the accounts were perfectly balanced as always. It was terribly ironic. He happened to be quite good at the one thing he so despised doing.
The office that was at the heart of the Tarleton family trade business smelled of old papers, wood smoke, and ink. It was from this office that the now-dead James Tarleton had built his shipping empire, and amassed a fortune and a reputation that his second son was now threatening to destroy. He still watched over the office, his face coldly gazing out from the portrait above the clock on the mantelpiece. James appeared to be the cold, business-like sort, but upon closer inspection his eyes revealed some of the same nature as that of his son Banastre.
"However," Thomas thought, "He must have known something of moderation." He looked down from the portrait to the clock. "And punctuality."
At long last, the door to the office opened, and Banastre Tarleton entered.
"Enter Tarleton, smiling foolishly as though all was right with the world," Thomas muttered to himself.
"There you are!" the older brother exclaimed, pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time for dramatic effect. "Tell me, Banastre, when someone wishes to speak with you at 3:30, do you always arrive at five after four?"
"Only when I'm running ahead of schedule," Ban answered quickly.
"I am in no mood for witty responses today, Banastre," Thomas snapped. "I have called you here because I wish to have a serious discussion with you, dear brother."
"Dear brother?" Ban laughed. "Honestly, Thomas."
"I know where you've been all afternoon," Thomas remarked, looking over his brother's fashionable new outfit. "What tailor produced that monstrosity, and more importantly, how much is it going to cost?"
"Still dislike the sight of anyone wearing blue?"
"Whatever are you talking about? Why should I hate blue?" Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Did you get hit in the head over in the colonies, Banastre? There are times when I worry about you."
"You? Worry about me?" Ban asked, eyes widening. "I think that you should be more worried about yourself."
Thomas Tarleton opened a drawer in the office's large desk and pulled out a small book, which he handed to his brother.
"Enough idle chatter, Banastre. I have called you here to discuss your little problem."
"Problem?" the dragoon asked, dumbfounded. "What problem?"
"That problem!" Thomas cried, pointing to the book. "I've been keeping records of your debts, Banastre. If you continue living as you have been, our funds will be totally exhausted by year's end. Mother will be forced into a workhouse, and you'll be locked away in debtor's prison. Which, in the end, might do you some good."
"You're overreacting, as usual."
"Look over the figures; you'll see that I'm not. You drink all the time, attend all sorts of extravagant parties, flirt with every woman you see, and gamble almost incessantly! Either you learn a little restraint, or I'm going to have to take some drastic action."
At that, Banastre Tarleton burst into such a fit of laughter that to the causal observer it would appear that he had lost his sanity completely.
"You're one to talk!" he gasped between burst of merriment. "Drastic measures? Honestly! Besides, we cannot possibly run out of money. I've heard what they're saying about you, that you're a better businessman than father ever was."
Thomas Tarleton jumped to his feet. "I am being perfectly honest, Banastre! You would do good to learn some restraint. I don't need to remind you that I am the head of this family. Neither I nor mother will honor any more of your debts. Assuming you completely disregard the advice I have given you and continue living the way you have, then I will have no choice but to disown you."
"Disown me!" Ban cried, mirth turning to outrage. "You can't do that!"
"I can and I will," Thomas replied, regaining his composure. "Ever since you returned from the colonies you have caused me nothing but trouble."
Ban smirked. "I think someone is jealous."
"Hardly."
A thousand wild horrors assemble in mine.
Relieve me, kind death, shut the scene from my view,
And save me, oh save me, 'ere madness ensue!
-John Andre
Liverpool, 1783
Chapter Two: The Unlikely Brothers
Thomas Tarleton stifled a yawn as he rechecked his calculations. Bookkeeping, he concluded, was the most frightfully dull occupation known to man. He drummed the fingers of his left hand anxiously on the desktop and glanced at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece across the room. It was nearly four. Someone was late.
"Of course, he's always late," Thomas sighed. "Always late, always drunk, always in dept."
It seemed to Thomas that he could sum up his brother's personality in a long list of always-es. Just a week previous, their mother, Jane Tarleton had received yet another letter from her second son asking that she remedy the debt he had once again gotten himself into. The oldest Tarleton boy could still remember how this afternoon's little conference had been arranged.
"He's impossible!" Jane cried, clutching the letter so tightly that her fingernails ripped tiny holes in the paper. "If he keeps this up we'll lose everything."
"Shall I speak with him, mother?" Thomas Tarleton had inquired, looking up from the book of poetry he had recently acquired in London.
Lady Tarleton sighed. "No one 'speaks' with Ban. He'll win you over with that charm of his, just like he does everyone else." She blushed. "Including me."
"I guarantee, my dear mother, that I am completely unaffected by Banastre's powers of persuasion," Thomas replied coldly.
"Are you quite sure, Thomas?"
He nodded.
"I will admit that business has been booming ever since you returned from your trip to France," Jane replied. "Why, I could almost say that you are almost as good at this as your father was. What did they do to you in Paris?"
Thomas' eyes widened. "Whatever do you mean, dear mother?"
Jane set Ban's letter aside. "It's only that you used to be rather shy. Now, you seem rather eager to confront your brother concerning his rather extravagant spending habits."
There was a light tapping at the door and a maid entered with a tray of tea and cakes.
"Your tea, madam."
"Thank you, Silvia."
The maid curtseyed, and was gone. Jane Tarleton filled a dark blue and gold-trimmed tea cup and added milk and sugar. She held it for a while to warm her hands. The room was almost unbearably cold, despite the cheery fire in the fireplace.
"Money brings out the worst in people, mother," Thomas explained. "I would sooner confront Banastre than see my mother starve and live in poverty."
Jane sipped her tea and smiled. "Very chivalrous."
Putting down his book, Thomas poured his own cup of tea. They sat in silence for some time, sipping their tea and thinking similar thoughts.
"Is that another volume of those terrible romantic poems you seem to enjoy so much?" Lady Tarleton asked, indicating the book."
"It is," Thomas smiled slyly. "And they are not terrible. They are quite good actually."
Alone now in his office, waiting for his brother to arrive, Thomas checked off the last of the numbers. Perfect, the accounts were perfectly balanced as always. It was terribly ironic. He happened to be quite good at the one thing he so despised doing.
The office that was at the heart of the Tarleton family trade business smelled of old papers, wood smoke, and ink. It was from this office that the now-dead James Tarleton had built his shipping empire, and amassed a fortune and a reputation that his second son was now threatening to destroy. He still watched over the office, his face coldly gazing out from the portrait above the clock on the mantelpiece. James appeared to be the cold, business-like sort, but upon closer inspection his eyes revealed some of the same nature as that of his son Banastre.
"However," Thomas thought, "He must have known something of moderation." He looked down from the portrait to the clock. "And punctuality."
At long last, the door to the office opened, and Banastre Tarleton entered.
"Enter Tarleton, smiling foolishly as though all was right with the world," Thomas muttered to himself.
"There you are!" the older brother exclaimed, pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time for dramatic effect. "Tell me, Banastre, when someone wishes to speak with you at 3:30, do you always arrive at five after four?"
"Only when I'm running ahead of schedule," Ban answered quickly.
"I am in no mood for witty responses today, Banastre," Thomas snapped. "I have called you here because I wish to have a serious discussion with you, dear brother."
"Dear brother?" Ban laughed. "Honestly, Thomas."
"I know where you've been all afternoon," Thomas remarked, looking over his brother's fashionable new outfit. "What tailor produced that monstrosity, and more importantly, how much is it going to cost?"
"Still dislike the sight of anyone wearing blue?"
"Whatever are you talking about? Why should I hate blue?" Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Did you get hit in the head over in the colonies, Banastre? There are times when I worry about you."
"You? Worry about me?" Ban asked, eyes widening. "I think that you should be more worried about yourself."
Thomas Tarleton opened a drawer in the office's large desk and pulled out a small book, which he handed to his brother.
"Enough idle chatter, Banastre. I have called you here to discuss your little problem."
"Problem?" the dragoon asked, dumbfounded. "What problem?"
"That problem!" Thomas cried, pointing to the book. "I've been keeping records of your debts, Banastre. If you continue living as you have been, our funds will be totally exhausted by year's end. Mother will be forced into a workhouse, and you'll be locked away in debtor's prison. Which, in the end, might do you some good."
"You're overreacting, as usual."
"Look over the figures; you'll see that I'm not. You drink all the time, attend all sorts of extravagant parties, flirt with every woman you see, and gamble almost incessantly! Either you learn a little restraint, or I'm going to have to take some drastic action."
At that, Banastre Tarleton burst into such a fit of laughter that to the causal observer it would appear that he had lost his sanity completely.
"You're one to talk!" he gasped between burst of merriment. "Drastic measures? Honestly! Besides, we cannot possibly run out of money. I've heard what they're saying about you, that you're a better businessman than father ever was."
Thomas Tarleton jumped to his feet. "I am being perfectly honest, Banastre! You would do good to learn some restraint. I don't need to remind you that I am the head of this family. Neither I nor mother will honor any more of your debts. Assuming you completely disregard the advice I have given you and continue living the way you have, then I will have no choice but to disown you."
"Disown me!" Ban cried, mirth turning to outrage. "You can't do that!"
"I can and I will," Thomas replied, regaining his composure. "Ever since you returned from the colonies you have caused me nothing but trouble."
Ban smirked. "I think someone is jealous."
"Hardly."