Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Two
"A Child of the Blood, part II"
For several days he had existed in the state of something between sleeping and waking, and, in a strange sort of way, he was thankful. Though he detested the laudanum, the headaches it caused, and the fact that it made him more helpless than he already was (and there was nothing he hated quite so much as being helpless) it did permit his mind some sort of artificial peace. He didn't have to think and most of the time, he simply couldn't. He didn't have to dwell on his defeat at the hands of that colonial, Benjamin Martin.
He awoke without knowing that he had drifted once again into unconsciousness.
"Well, I suppose I'm impressed," Mooreville remarked, his voice strained. He was standing at the window looking out over the South Carolina landscape. He watched the wounded soldiers coming and going. Most were heavily bandaged, some were missing limbs. It was a sea of white linen stained with blood. A scream wafted upwards from the tent where the surgeons were going about their bloody work. Mooreville winced. He had never gotten used to that sound. It would always remind him of the time he had been the one on the table.
He wanted to shout every foul word he knew. Cornwallis was a fool. Didn't he know the sort of people he was dealing with? Dragoons were supposed to be invincible and over half of the sixty-six hereditary members were dead, some without heirs. The blood continued to thin.
"Blame me if you want, my lord, but I would suggest, if I may, that Gen. Lord Cornwallis would be a more appropriate target for your anger."
It was a long statement and it had required substantial effort. It hurt, but it was worth it. Tavington had been the object of Dr. Mooreville's anger often enough that he knew to avoid it if at all possible.
Mooreville turned away from the window and limped over to the bedside. The old dragoon had lost his left leg fighting the French during the Seven Years War, something he seemed genuinely proud of at times. Mooreville was the sort of man who delighted in recounting his old war stories for anyone who was willing to listen. Years ago, Tavington had often found himself the unwilling audience for the old man's reenactments.
"You shouldn't talk," Moorville knelt beside the bed and took Tavington's right hand. "You don't want to injure yourself further. Half of the original dragoons dead is bad enough. The last thing we want to lose is you."
The old man stood back up and walked around to the left side of the bed. With the curiosity of a trained physician, which is what he had been before being called into the king's service, Mooreville pulled back the bandages and examined the wound in Tavington's left shoulder. It was almost the least of his injuries.
Mooreville sucked in his breath sharply. "Surgeons don't even know how to remove bullets anymore. God, they make things worse. If they can make this much of a mess out of a simple bullet wound to the shoulder, then men who stub their toes must end up having their legs amputated." The doctor had a distinctive habit of always mentioning lost legs in any argument. "Still, I don't think you'll lose the arm. Just be thankful you're right handed." He replaced the bandages.
Lose the arm! If Tavington had been physically capable of screaming he very well might have. Had the drugs dulled his senses that much? Losing that arm. He hadn't even considered it possible. He was Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons, he didn't lose arms.
"Well he certainly isn't much to look at," Lady Worthington remarked.
She came up to the boy and began walking around him, circling, like a vulture determining if something was suitably dead and ready to eat. Lady Worthington not only acted like a vulture, she also resembled one. Her hair and eyes were coal black and she was wearing a dress to match. Above the dark eyes, black eyebrows arched upward. When combined with a long, pointed nose, a curved back, and sloping shoulders the similarity was so uncanny that many of the girls had taken to referring to her as 'Lady Vulture' behind her back.
"I suppose not," Morganna admitted. "Though he does resemble my late father."
"I wouldn't know," Lady Worthington replied coldly. "I never had the pleasure of meeting the man." She continued to circle. "He's much too thin. At least that means he won't eat too much. Our finances are in a desperate state, Morganna. You do know that?"
Morganna nodded.
"And this hair," Lady Worthington grabbed a few strands of William's dark hair and jerked it out, rather painfully. The boy gave her such a look of cold malice that the girls gasped. Morganna was painfully shocked. Lady Vulture was the only one who didn't notice. "Something really must be done about this hair. It's positively. filthy."
William had never had any part of his person referred to as filthy before. His appearance was one of the few things he had taken pride in; it was the thing that made him better than his father. He might have been younger, but when his father was lying on the floor wearing nothing but a pair of pants stained with ale, William had been, in his personal opinion, superior.
It was then that the hereditary Tavington sense of dignity, and the famous Tavington temper, first proved their presence in the young boy. He might have been many unpleasant things. He was an orphan, his disposition wasn't pleasant, and he might have kicked his father's dead body a few times when he found the old man lying dead on the floor, but he wasn't filthy, and he wasn't about to let an old woman who wasn't so clean herself tell everyone that he was.
"My hair is most certainly not filthy!" he cried and then he slapped Lady Worthington.
The moments immediately following this unexpected action played out in a most bizarre fashion. Lady Worthington stumbled backwards, both of her hands clutched the left side of her face. As William, Morganna, and the girls watched something dark began to drip from between Lady Worthington's fingers. She turned and fled the room, but no one saw her go, they were all staring at the drops of thick, red blood, slowly cooling on the floor.
For several days he had existed in the state of something between sleeping and waking, and, in a strange sort of way, he was thankful. Though he detested the laudanum, the headaches it caused, and the fact that it made him more helpless than he already was (and there was nothing he hated quite so much as being helpless) it did permit his mind some sort of artificial peace. He didn't have to think and most of the time, he simply couldn't. He didn't have to dwell on his defeat at the hands of that colonial, Benjamin Martin.
He awoke without knowing that he had drifted once again into unconsciousness.
"Well, I suppose I'm impressed," Mooreville remarked, his voice strained. He was standing at the window looking out over the South Carolina landscape. He watched the wounded soldiers coming and going. Most were heavily bandaged, some were missing limbs. It was a sea of white linen stained with blood. A scream wafted upwards from the tent where the surgeons were going about their bloody work. Mooreville winced. He had never gotten used to that sound. It would always remind him of the time he had been the one on the table.
He wanted to shout every foul word he knew. Cornwallis was a fool. Didn't he know the sort of people he was dealing with? Dragoons were supposed to be invincible and over half of the sixty-six hereditary members were dead, some without heirs. The blood continued to thin.
"Blame me if you want, my lord, but I would suggest, if I may, that Gen. Lord Cornwallis would be a more appropriate target for your anger."
It was a long statement and it had required substantial effort. It hurt, but it was worth it. Tavington had been the object of Dr. Mooreville's anger often enough that he knew to avoid it if at all possible.
Mooreville turned away from the window and limped over to the bedside. The old dragoon had lost his left leg fighting the French during the Seven Years War, something he seemed genuinely proud of at times. Mooreville was the sort of man who delighted in recounting his old war stories for anyone who was willing to listen. Years ago, Tavington had often found himself the unwilling audience for the old man's reenactments.
"You shouldn't talk," Moorville knelt beside the bed and took Tavington's right hand. "You don't want to injure yourself further. Half of the original dragoons dead is bad enough. The last thing we want to lose is you."
The old man stood back up and walked around to the left side of the bed. With the curiosity of a trained physician, which is what he had been before being called into the king's service, Mooreville pulled back the bandages and examined the wound in Tavington's left shoulder. It was almost the least of his injuries.
Mooreville sucked in his breath sharply. "Surgeons don't even know how to remove bullets anymore. God, they make things worse. If they can make this much of a mess out of a simple bullet wound to the shoulder, then men who stub their toes must end up having their legs amputated." The doctor had a distinctive habit of always mentioning lost legs in any argument. "Still, I don't think you'll lose the arm. Just be thankful you're right handed." He replaced the bandages.
Lose the arm! If Tavington had been physically capable of screaming he very well might have. Had the drugs dulled his senses that much? Losing that arm. He hadn't even considered it possible. He was Col. William Tavington, Green Dragoons, he didn't lose arms.
"Well he certainly isn't much to look at," Lady Worthington remarked.
She came up to the boy and began walking around him, circling, like a vulture determining if something was suitably dead and ready to eat. Lady Worthington not only acted like a vulture, she also resembled one. Her hair and eyes were coal black and she was wearing a dress to match. Above the dark eyes, black eyebrows arched upward. When combined with a long, pointed nose, a curved back, and sloping shoulders the similarity was so uncanny that many of the girls had taken to referring to her as 'Lady Vulture' behind her back.
"I suppose not," Morganna admitted. "Though he does resemble my late father."
"I wouldn't know," Lady Worthington replied coldly. "I never had the pleasure of meeting the man." She continued to circle. "He's much too thin. At least that means he won't eat too much. Our finances are in a desperate state, Morganna. You do know that?"
Morganna nodded.
"And this hair," Lady Worthington grabbed a few strands of William's dark hair and jerked it out, rather painfully. The boy gave her such a look of cold malice that the girls gasped. Morganna was painfully shocked. Lady Vulture was the only one who didn't notice. "Something really must be done about this hair. It's positively. filthy."
William had never had any part of his person referred to as filthy before. His appearance was one of the few things he had taken pride in; it was the thing that made him better than his father. He might have been younger, but when his father was lying on the floor wearing nothing but a pair of pants stained with ale, William had been, in his personal opinion, superior.
It was then that the hereditary Tavington sense of dignity, and the famous Tavington temper, first proved their presence in the young boy. He might have been many unpleasant things. He was an orphan, his disposition wasn't pleasant, and he might have kicked his father's dead body a few times when he found the old man lying dead on the floor, but he wasn't filthy, and he wasn't about to let an old woman who wasn't so clean herself tell everyone that he was.
"My hair is most certainly not filthy!" he cried and then he slapped Lady Worthington.
The moments immediately following this unexpected action played out in a most bizarre fashion. Lady Worthington stumbled backwards, both of her hands clutched the left side of her face. As William, Morganna, and the girls watched something dark began to drip from between Lady Worthington's fingers. She turned and fled the room, but no one saw her go, they were all staring at the drops of thick, red blood, slowly cooling on the floor.