Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Four: "Cornwallis Eats Dinner"
Gen. Lord Cornwallis was having dinner, undoubtedly his favorite pastime. He liked dinner. He liked the food, the way it was served, and the sort of polite conversations that the meal required. Dinner was a marvelous thing, no one was rude, or loud, or insulting, or impolite, and if they were, you could simply ask them to leave. However, on this particular day, dinner was perhaps a bit less amusing that usual. His ego was still aching from the blow it had received at the Battle of Cowpens, and O'Hara had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. This was weighing on the general's mind more than his own bruised ego. This was so unlike O'Hara, almost unnatural. The two of them had always gotten along splendidly. Certainly Gen. O'Hara hadn't lost faith in his ability to command. O'Hara couldn't become one of those supporting what Cornwallis affectionately referred to as the "Brutality Movement."
The whole thing had begun with the recent defeat, though Cornwallis had sensed the undercurrent of dissatisfaction for some time now. There as a large faction among the troop who wanted to try their hand at beating the colonials at their own game.
"Preposterous! Marching out of ranks, burning things down, terrorizing the citizens!" Cornwallis mumbled between bites of roast beef, "Absolutely, undoubtedly preposterous, but I will put a stop to it."
"They were the reason we lost that battle," Cornwallis had explained to O'Hara.
"You mean Tavington and his dragoons, sir?"
"Of course I mean Tavington!" Cornwallis snapped. "If only he'd followed orders that never would have happened. I could have won that battle O'Hara, if only that man weren't so filthy ambitious!"
"What do you intend to do about it, my lord?"
"I intend to make him regret that he ever survived that battle. Col. Tavington will never see England again, I will see to that personally."
* * *
Dr. Mooreville made his was through Fort Carolina as silently as was possible for a man with one wooden leg. He passed many infantrymen and several officers, none of which took any notice of him. For this he was thankful, it was the nature of his position in the British Army to remain as entirely unspectacular as possible. He always dressed in the uniform of a common infantry lieutenant, having come to regard the traditional dragoon uniform as a bit too uncommon.
On his way up the stairs, a rather slow process with one leg, Mooreville encountered one of the surviving dragoons. Corporal Smythe, a dark, slender youth, had stationed himself on the landing between the first and second floors. There he amused himself by taking note of all who came to see Gen. Lord Cornwallis. Seeing Mooreville, his already small eyes narrowed until they were no more than dark slits.
"What are you doing here old man?" he spat.
"Paying a visit to the Lord General," Mooreville answered with a smile, "not that it's any of your concern, dear Mr. Smythe."
"Get on with you then."
Mooreville stopped for a moment to lean against the railing and catch his breath. "I would speak with you later this evening."
Smythe cocked an eyebrow. "I won't speak with you. You know that."
"Very well," the doctor replied, and continued up the stairs.
When he came to the second floor hall, before interrupting Lord Cornwallis' dinner, Mooreville knocked on the doors leading to the rooms of Gen. O'Hara. No answer.
There were a great many things that Dr. Mooreville did not respect. Other's right to privacy was among them. He bent down and took a peek through the oversized key-hole. He was only somewhat surprised to find Gen. O'Hara standing in front of the mirror staring in absolute horror at the disgustingly discolored skin now covering his neck and left arm. Mooreville bit his bottom lip to prevent some very untimely laughter from escaping. Despite the somewhat somber mission he had been sent on, Mooreville was reminded of some of the happier days in his life, decades ago, when he had been younger, and Tavington's grandfather was still alive.
They would have stood in that hallway together and laughed at poor Gen. O'Hara's misfortune until their eyes started watering and the pain in their sides became unbearable. A sense of humor had been William XI most endearing trait, and one of the reasons men had been willing to follow him to just about anywhere. It was too bad that the perfect balance of humor and cruelty wasn't inherited by his grandson. After all, William XI had always done such things to others as jokes, not as a means of revenge.
Having satisfied his curiosity, Mooreville continued down the hallway to the rooms belonging to Lord Cornwallis. He let himself in without bothering to knock. Why should he be courteous to Lord Cornwallis anyway? He was the superior officer.
Genuinely surprised by the abrupt and unannounced entrance, Lord Cornwallis dropped his spoon into the soup he had been tasting. Some of the soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl, staining the perfectly white tablecloth.
"Mooreville!" he cried, "What in God's, or in your case the Devil's, name are you doing here?"
"Peace, Lord Cornwallis," Mooreville sighed in his unique voice. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle resting on a near-bye table. "I did not mean to interrupt your dinner." He lied. "Go ahead and eat, and no, I don't care for any."
Mooreville selected one of the more comfortable chairs and made himself at home. He sipped his wine and observed Lord Cornwallis as a slave trader might examine his goods, determining which ones were more likely to rebel against their new masters. The old general had not changed much in ten years. He was bit heavier perhaps, but that was about it.
Despite the slight nervousness that had come over him upon Mooreville's arrival, Lord Cornwallis quickly resumed eating. "Have you been to see Col. Tavington?" he asked after several long minutes of uncomfortable silence.
"I have." Mooreville poured more wine and continued. "Poor man, he has no idea how long he's been lying there. How much opium did you give him?"
"I am not the surgeon. I wouldn't know."
Mooreville smiled. It wasn't a pleasant sight. His face contorted into a chilling façade of devilish hatred. "Like hell you don't know! You're the one who gave the order. Laudanum isn't cheap stuff. No surgeon is right mind would waste so much on someone so grievously injured. It's too bad you didn't know enough about the drug to calculate a substantial overdose. It wouldn't have taken much more you know."
Nearly too angry for words, Lord Cornwallis leapt to his feet. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Why that would be like murdering one of my own officers!"
Mooreville's smile faded. "One of your officers who you were convinced the world, let alone the British Army, would be better off without."
"I will not have you enter into my chamber unannounced and accuse me of attempted murder! I would do no such thing, not even to a man like Col. Tavington," he pointed toward the door. "Now, remove yourself from my presence!"
Mooreville didn't budge. Cornwallis continued to stand, completely red in the face, pointing in the direction of the door. After a few moments, the Lord General inferred that his pose was beginning to look silly, so he stopped pointing.
"GO!" he bellowed.
"I'm afraid that you've forgotten who is the superior officer," Mooreville stated without emotion. "Kindly sit down, such outbursts cannot be good for your health." As dedicated as he was to the rules and traditions of the British Army, and seeing that Mooreville had not neglected to enforce his superiority, Cornwallis had no other option but to sit.
"Now," Mooreville began, setting his glass aside, "as to why I have come here. There are three reasons actually. But before I start on that, I bring a message from the House of Lords expressing their disappointment in you. You should never have lost at Cowpens."
"You think I don't know that?" Cornwallis wanted to shout, but, instead, he mumbled it under his breath.
"Firstly, I am here to command the remaining dragoons. And perhaps this will brighten your mood a bit, General, I have been instructed to defer to your authority on the battle field. When we engage the rebels, I am to do as you command. Secondly, I am here to protect Col. William Tavington, Twelfth Grand High Dragoon of the Order of the Green Dragoons, Child of the Blood of William the Green, Founder of Our Order."
The Lord General rolled his eyes. It simply wasn't fair. Those dragoons were a bunch of rabble, desperate to glorify themselves. How dare Mooreville concoct such a ridiculous title! "Protect him from whom?" the Lord General asked, though I already knew the answer somewhere in the back of his subconscious.
"From you mostly, though there are a few others. That Wilkins for one."
"Wilkins!"
"Yes, but that's none of your concern. And there will be no disciplinary action taken against Col. Tavington due to his not obeying your orders at the Battle of Cowpens."
"You cannot order such a thing!" Cornwallis exclaimed, his rage mounting once again. "Col. Tavington is under my command. He disobeyed my orders. He will go before the court!"
"You couldn't kill him with opium, so now you'd have the military court hand him and save you the trouble?"
Cornwallis pretended he hadn't heard the doctor's reply. "He disobeyed my orders. Anyone who refuses to follow orders goes before the court. Only a direct order from the King himself could stop such proceedings."
"I letter from the king himself?" Mooreville reached into his jacket and produced a letter printed on heavy, cream-colored paper, and sealed with wax. "There you are." He handed the letter to the outraged general with a laugh.
Cornwallis spent several seconds staring at the piece of questionable correspondence. He couldn't believe it. Such things weren't possible in his world. The king had liked him, had given him two beautiful purebred dogs as a reward for loyalty. It wasn't possible that his Majesty would order him to spare Tavington. Tavington! Yet, there it was, pressed into the wax was the crest of the House of Stuart.
"The King has gone mad," Cornwallis lamented, unaware of how right he was.
"Indeed he has," said Mooreville getting to his feet (or 'foot' in his case). "But at least he has enough sanity left to protect those who serve him loyally. I must be going now, Gen. Cornwallis. I have a regiment of dragoons to organize, and to be honest, I don't think I can stand to be around you a moment longer."
The old dragoon was halfway through the door when Cornwallis called out, "I thought you said there were three reasons for your coming here. You only mentioned two."
Mooreville couldn't help but smile, but this smile was hardly devilish. "And I must send Corporal Smythe home to England. The Duke believes he has chosen a suitable husband for her."
Gen. Lord Cornwallis was having dinner, undoubtedly his favorite pastime. He liked dinner. He liked the food, the way it was served, and the sort of polite conversations that the meal required. Dinner was a marvelous thing, no one was rude, or loud, or insulting, or impolite, and if they were, you could simply ask them to leave. However, on this particular day, dinner was perhaps a bit less amusing that usual. His ego was still aching from the blow it had received at the Battle of Cowpens, and O'Hara had locked himself in his room and refused to come out. This was weighing on the general's mind more than his own bruised ego. This was so unlike O'Hara, almost unnatural. The two of them had always gotten along splendidly. Certainly Gen. O'Hara hadn't lost faith in his ability to command. O'Hara couldn't become one of those supporting what Cornwallis affectionately referred to as the "Brutality Movement."
The whole thing had begun with the recent defeat, though Cornwallis had sensed the undercurrent of dissatisfaction for some time now. There as a large faction among the troop who wanted to try their hand at beating the colonials at their own game.
"Preposterous! Marching out of ranks, burning things down, terrorizing the citizens!" Cornwallis mumbled between bites of roast beef, "Absolutely, undoubtedly preposterous, but I will put a stop to it."
"They were the reason we lost that battle," Cornwallis had explained to O'Hara.
"You mean Tavington and his dragoons, sir?"
"Of course I mean Tavington!" Cornwallis snapped. "If only he'd followed orders that never would have happened. I could have won that battle O'Hara, if only that man weren't so filthy ambitious!"
"What do you intend to do about it, my lord?"
"I intend to make him regret that he ever survived that battle. Col. Tavington will never see England again, I will see to that personally."
* * *
Dr. Mooreville made his was through Fort Carolina as silently as was possible for a man with one wooden leg. He passed many infantrymen and several officers, none of which took any notice of him. For this he was thankful, it was the nature of his position in the British Army to remain as entirely unspectacular as possible. He always dressed in the uniform of a common infantry lieutenant, having come to regard the traditional dragoon uniform as a bit too uncommon.
On his way up the stairs, a rather slow process with one leg, Mooreville encountered one of the surviving dragoons. Corporal Smythe, a dark, slender youth, had stationed himself on the landing between the first and second floors. There he amused himself by taking note of all who came to see Gen. Lord Cornwallis. Seeing Mooreville, his already small eyes narrowed until they were no more than dark slits.
"What are you doing here old man?" he spat.
"Paying a visit to the Lord General," Mooreville answered with a smile, "not that it's any of your concern, dear Mr. Smythe."
"Get on with you then."
Mooreville stopped for a moment to lean against the railing and catch his breath. "I would speak with you later this evening."
Smythe cocked an eyebrow. "I won't speak with you. You know that."
"Very well," the doctor replied, and continued up the stairs.
When he came to the second floor hall, before interrupting Lord Cornwallis' dinner, Mooreville knocked on the doors leading to the rooms of Gen. O'Hara. No answer.
There were a great many things that Dr. Mooreville did not respect. Other's right to privacy was among them. He bent down and took a peek through the oversized key-hole. He was only somewhat surprised to find Gen. O'Hara standing in front of the mirror staring in absolute horror at the disgustingly discolored skin now covering his neck and left arm. Mooreville bit his bottom lip to prevent some very untimely laughter from escaping. Despite the somewhat somber mission he had been sent on, Mooreville was reminded of some of the happier days in his life, decades ago, when he had been younger, and Tavington's grandfather was still alive.
They would have stood in that hallway together and laughed at poor Gen. O'Hara's misfortune until their eyes started watering and the pain in their sides became unbearable. A sense of humor had been William XI most endearing trait, and one of the reasons men had been willing to follow him to just about anywhere. It was too bad that the perfect balance of humor and cruelty wasn't inherited by his grandson. After all, William XI had always done such things to others as jokes, not as a means of revenge.
Having satisfied his curiosity, Mooreville continued down the hallway to the rooms belonging to Lord Cornwallis. He let himself in without bothering to knock. Why should he be courteous to Lord Cornwallis anyway? He was the superior officer.
Genuinely surprised by the abrupt and unannounced entrance, Lord Cornwallis dropped his spoon into the soup he had been tasting. Some of the soup sloshed over the rim of the bowl, staining the perfectly white tablecloth.
"Mooreville!" he cried, "What in God's, or in your case the Devil's, name are you doing here?"
"Peace, Lord Cornwallis," Mooreville sighed in his unique voice. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle resting on a near-bye table. "I did not mean to interrupt your dinner." He lied. "Go ahead and eat, and no, I don't care for any."
Mooreville selected one of the more comfortable chairs and made himself at home. He sipped his wine and observed Lord Cornwallis as a slave trader might examine his goods, determining which ones were more likely to rebel against their new masters. The old general had not changed much in ten years. He was bit heavier perhaps, but that was about it.
Despite the slight nervousness that had come over him upon Mooreville's arrival, Lord Cornwallis quickly resumed eating. "Have you been to see Col. Tavington?" he asked after several long minutes of uncomfortable silence.
"I have." Mooreville poured more wine and continued. "Poor man, he has no idea how long he's been lying there. How much opium did you give him?"
"I am not the surgeon. I wouldn't know."
Mooreville smiled. It wasn't a pleasant sight. His face contorted into a chilling façade of devilish hatred. "Like hell you don't know! You're the one who gave the order. Laudanum isn't cheap stuff. No surgeon is right mind would waste so much on someone so grievously injured. It's too bad you didn't know enough about the drug to calculate a substantial overdose. It wouldn't have taken much more you know."
Nearly too angry for words, Lord Cornwallis leapt to his feet. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing? Why that would be like murdering one of my own officers!"
Mooreville's smile faded. "One of your officers who you were convinced the world, let alone the British Army, would be better off without."
"I will not have you enter into my chamber unannounced and accuse me of attempted murder! I would do no such thing, not even to a man like Col. Tavington," he pointed toward the door. "Now, remove yourself from my presence!"
Mooreville didn't budge. Cornwallis continued to stand, completely red in the face, pointing in the direction of the door. After a few moments, the Lord General inferred that his pose was beginning to look silly, so he stopped pointing.
"GO!" he bellowed.
"I'm afraid that you've forgotten who is the superior officer," Mooreville stated without emotion. "Kindly sit down, such outbursts cannot be good for your health." As dedicated as he was to the rules and traditions of the British Army, and seeing that Mooreville had not neglected to enforce his superiority, Cornwallis had no other option but to sit.
"Now," Mooreville began, setting his glass aside, "as to why I have come here. There are three reasons actually. But before I start on that, I bring a message from the House of Lords expressing their disappointment in you. You should never have lost at Cowpens."
"You think I don't know that?" Cornwallis wanted to shout, but, instead, he mumbled it under his breath.
"Firstly, I am here to command the remaining dragoons. And perhaps this will brighten your mood a bit, General, I have been instructed to defer to your authority on the battle field. When we engage the rebels, I am to do as you command. Secondly, I am here to protect Col. William Tavington, Twelfth Grand High Dragoon of the Order of the Green Dragoons, Child of the Blood of William the Green, Founder of Our Order."
The Lord General rolled his eyes. It simply wasn't fair. Those dragoons were a bunch of rabble, desperate to glorify themselves. How dare Mooreville concoct such a ridiculous title! "Protect him from whom?" the Lord General asked, though I already knew the answer somewhere in the back of his subconscious.
"From you mostly, though there are a few others. That Wilkins for one."
"Wilkins!"
"Yes, but that's none of your concern. And there will be no disciplinary action taken against Col. Tavington due to his not obeying your orders at the Battle of Cowpens."
"You cannot order such a thing!" Cornwallis exclaimed, his rage mounting once again. "Col. Tavington is under my command. He disobeyed my orders. He will go before the court!"
"You couldn't kill him with opium, so now you'd have the military court hand him and save you the trouble?"
Cornwallis pretended he hadn't heard the doctor's reply. "He disobeyed my orders. Anyone who refuses to follow orders goes before the court. Only a direct order from the King himself could stop such proceedings."
"I letter from the king himself?" Mooreville reached into his jacket and produced a letter printed on heavy, cream-colored paper, and sealed with wax. "There you are." He handed the letter to the outraged general with a laugh.
Cornwallis spent several seconds staring at the piece of questionable correspondence. He couldn't believe it. Such things weren't possible in his world. The king had liked him, had given him two beautiful purebred dogs as a reward for loyalty. It wasn't possible that his Majesty would order him to spare Tavington. Tavington! Yet, there it was, pressed into the wax was the crest of the House of Stuart.
"The King has gone mad," Cornwallis lamented, unaware of how right he was.
"Indeed he has," said Mooreville getting to his feet (or 'foot' in his case). "But at least he has enough sanity left to protect those who serve him loyally. I must be going now, Gen. Cornwallis. I have a regiment of dragoons to organize, and to be honest, I don't think I can stand to be around you a moment longer."
The old dragoon was halfway through the door when Cornwallis called out, "I thought you said there were three reasons for your coming here. You only mentioned two."
Mooreville couldn't help but smile, but this smile was hardly devilish. "And I must send Corporal Smythe home to England. The Duke believes he has chosen a suitable husband for her."